You bought me sunflowers last Saturday
because you like the yellow orchestra we can
listen to, but you do not have to direct.
It plays a private concert only for you.
I play a few notes here and there too,
but nothing can compare to sunflowers.

I compare lots of things to
flowers,
like your eyes.
You do something to my insides
I cannot explain
in a metaphor to flowers.

You planted a gilded seed.
It grew faster than any ****;
more delicious than homemade irish mead.

Sun shining, birds chirping, children playing-
all of this-
sounds like life’s decaying
because you’re not next to me.

You make oxygen more than a box on the periodic table.

I’m not suggesting I’m unable
to perform tasks without you.
I’m used to ashes in my coffee cup.
Your presence seems to open up
cold sunflowers.
You set ablaze the sun’s powers.
I could go on like this for hours
about the love you built;
iridescent solid sunflowers

I'll settle for the 6 horse
on a rainy afternoon
a paper cup of coffee
in my hand
a little way to go,
the wind twirling out
small wrens from
the upper grandstand roof,
the jocks coming out
for a middle race
silent
and the easy rain making
everything
at once
almost alike,
the horses at peace with
each other
before the drunken war
and I am under the grandstand
feeling for
cigarettes
settling for coffee,
then the horses walk by
taking their little men
away-
it is funeral and graceful
and glad
like the opening
of flowers.

The way she loves me is like no one else.
She loves me unconditionally and I cant see why.
She claims I am perfect and I am her everything.
If only she knew the truth.

An ex mercenary
street fighter
Alcoholic.

A man with a past he wish he could forget.
Paranoid
Afraid
and resorts to violence quickly.
Surely no match for this angel.

But she doesn't seem to mind or care.
Her love belongs to him.
Without this love to pick him up,
he would most certainly be dead.

But this love is special,
a most unique kind.
He always loved her,
and she always loved him,

and the love blossomed
like a rose
not a rose
for a rose dies,

But rather a wine
if you would have it.
The longer it grows
the longer the time,
the finer it gets
and the more valuable it becomes

I love you Nikkie
Marry me?

Scrolling down these pages,
I couldn't help but notice the shape
words create when dissolved into paragraphs.

Our emotions take a physical shape
that of vases holding fresh flowers
colours spilling from the rim
or ornamental mosaics
made of broken pieces
that is ourselves.