i wanted to be a poet, i wanted to fill pages with my words about beautiful people,

but maybe in all reality, i just wanted to be a poem. a poem about a beautiful person.

i haven't written anything since the last time i looked in your eyes.
i don't know if its because im scared of what ill come up with,
or if its because im scared i won't be able to come up with anything at all.

i was at the depths of july and the beginning of an endless summer

she said that she was winter and that frostbite had taken over her body, but after i saw her smile i didn't believe her

her smile was not cold and bitter, it was a huge white daisy in the middle of my brutal november

yes she was different, but she was far from the inescapable december.

sometimes she would give you a quick cold shiver, but never without sitting you down next to a bonfire after

she tricked herself into thinking that she was winter,
cold and lifeless,

but what she doesn't know is she is my summer filled with daises and brightness

he studies people and he sees people, not for the outside but he looks right through them like the outside doesn't even matter. he can see your heart right through your chest. big and bright and warm, or cold and stale and unreachable. when he hugs you, his warmth seeps through your shirt and clings to your skin like your favorite perfume that you wish would never wear off. who needs a light in a room when you have his smile?
he started out as a little seed in the ground, and now you turn around and he's grown another 6 inches.
he doesn't care about himself. he doesn't mind if he has a cut on his ankle and its bleeding everywhere, if you have a paper cut, he will give you the last bandaid. if your sick, he will bring you a trash can and some water (spilling half of it on your floor) and he will sit with you on your bed all day talking to you and watching movies, even though you and him both know he can't sit still for even 5 minutes straight, and when you get sick and pick up the trash can, he will throw the covers over his head and he will pat your back (from under the covers) so he, as he quotes "doesn't get your sickies, or see your sickies."
when your feeling down, he will run into your room and he will look you straight in the eyes and say, ***** your too pretty to be crying, whats wrong? and you can literally see the compassion flowing out of his eyes into yours.
nate is a perfect example of how every human should be. live like nate does everyday, searching for no reward, finding satisfaction in simply the smile he puts on your face.
live like my superman, and you'll finally understand what it means to live.

i'm tired of comparing the stars and the galaxies to your crystal blue wonderfully lit up eyes
    that reflect your sadness like a shimmering lake in the darkness reflects its surroundings

No combination of perfectly sought out words could ever come close to comparison of the poetry your eyes speak to mine with only one unsubdivided glance.

  I now understand what they mean by "your my favorite book."

  Only, your not a book. Your a flowing scatter brained poetry piece.

  From where I'm standing, I don't think I'll ever reach the end.

  maybe their is no end.
Interminable depth in the drowning midnight blues.

  Quite frankly, I could continue, without fail; reading my favorite poetry piece incessantly.