Why do words look better on a sheet,
When, from my mouth, they seem incomplete?
How is it they flow so well with ink?
If I try to speak them, I cannot think.
Will they transform, someday? From noise to sound?
If I voice words out there, will they be found?

i can see it flicker, slowly dying
a fire that burned once brighter than our love

i pour in all my heart
longing for the flames to soar back to life

aggressively i throw wet wood, needing to heal
when rising smoke blinds my senses, cuts open my lungs

all the shining colors are gone - red, yellow, gold
as smothering darkness sits on my chest

accompanied by deafening silence
that swallowed the healthy sizzling noise

i stare at the orange fervor, mesmerized
unaware of the tears desperately watering my desiccated eyes

no matter how beautiful
all fires burn out

Her desire was love
but she found a land of ice.
In her duty to melt it
she ended up frozen alive.

I cannot compose brilliant poems, sonnets, or verses,

and I cannot speak to you in Latin or Greek;

I cannot move you with any language made up by man.

Love is the only only language I could touch you with

If you only knew how much I could love you.

If you knew I love you;

If I were brave enough to tell you at all.