bliss. is often blind
to any sort of
complications.

bliss. is often mistaken
for something far more
mundane.

bliss. can be broken
in an instant
with a single word.

I worry
that we have fallen so deep
that should we ever
fall out
we would be
too absorbed
to climb out.
I worry
that you have
fallen out and
just don't know how
to tell me.
What if you've let
your doubt overcome you
and you simply
just don't know how
to tell me.

sometimes I write poems about emotions
that I have no first-hand experience with
simply because I can sympathize with how they may feel
to you
or you
or you
I can understand how your stomach can turn and twist and sink
how you can despise yourself will all of your being
and cry in silence because of something I can't hear
In hopes that some of you can understand what it might feel like
for me
or him
or her
Empathy is so rare today, that all I can search for, is sincerity in strangers
and how lucky I am to have found a stranger to love, a lover to understand
and how lucky you could be if you found empathy in strangers
and if strangers could understand it all.

So you've found my hidden treasure chest
of all my buried fantasies.
All my secrets and my dreams.
I hope you can relate
to honesty this pure.

remember all those words I wrote
begging you to look my way,
to open up and let me catch you.
I remember thinking how I just
had to have you or I'd die
but death would be a promise
cause I never thought you'd fall.
Then all the sudden, in a moments notice
We were falling
though galaxies and shooting stars
so incredibly fast and so incredibly hard
and now I can honestly tell you
how much I love to hear you tell me
how much you love me.

there's no way that anybody else in world feels the way I do. I love you more than anyone could possibly love anyone else. our love is special and original and better than anyone else's. we're so in love and it's so magical and this is our world. everyone else is just living in it

There are so many poems out there
so many **** poems about the same
**** thing.
It makes me sick to my stomach
thinking about all these ******* poems
and ******* poets
sitting around on their *****
pouring their feelings onto a page
that no body gives a **** about.
Suckers.
It's a suckers game, really.
What poor, pathetic poets we all are.
Sitting around on our ******* ***** writing stupid poetry
for no one but ourselves.
Well I'll tell you something -
if you like this stupid ******* poem,
I'm sure I'll like your stupid ******* poem.

Yours truly.