How would one describe love? Some believe that love is just made up, for a reason humans are living today.

Other say love would be like a good song that you can't stop playing over and over again day in and day out, never leaving your head or just a random thought throughout your day.

Or love is like a piece of art. Always finding something new whenever you search through it more and more, always finding something new that makes your heart swoon more than it had before.

Adults say love is something only they have felt before, something teens or young adults would never understand. The complexity or the feelings you get whenever you think about your lover. How its a thin line of desperation and lust.

Yet, we do know how it feels. Our minds have created our perfect love story just for us, created with what we've been told before. We make this up from stories we have been told as young children, or seeing it as you pass by a house being repainted by a couple who is laughing because the wife got paint on her and the husband put more on her which turned into laughing fits of joy and a new memory being made.

Love isn't just an emotion, its a feeling. A feeling that could only be expressed by one that feels it. Love can be felt in any situation, even in the worst of times.

Love is like an empty book, ready for the beautiful stories and memories to be put in it by the love ridden author.

As a bathtub lined with white porcelain,
When the hot water gives out or goes tepid,
So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion,
O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.

been pecking the pole since the forties

we think,

how delightful.



yet it must be changed and moved

in case it falls down, what would we

do then?  he asked.



i decided not to think about that, and

rejoice in the creosote

of the new thing.



may be the woodpecker will

too?



sbm.

Do no harm.
  Leave the war-plane frame of reference
       to other puzzle pieces.
We are naked.
We are not.
We are not certain of which
         monologue to begin.
So we chant in
       unified panting
         etching legends
          out of rhymes.
Do no harm.
    Do no harm.
It matters now that the growing telephones
          are charged like neglected
         poisons of dampening redials.
Truth is gaining wisdom like
         groups of formatted crosses
           jumping like splinters
          of margarine jars.
We are naked.
We are not.
We are one with living and prepared
          for the drying of the hands.
Clean me up and leave me outside.
Sun gone but wind remaining.
Do no harm.
    Do no harm.
      Do no harm.