I didn't want to be cliché about it,
but he was the sun after the rain.
He was the light after the outage.
The courage in fear,
and the dessert after the meal.

He was the sigh of relief after a long day,
he was the wind in my sails on the vast ocean of my open heart.

I didn't want to be cliché about it, but there was no other way to describe the way I felt in my heart. Anything was possible. There was no reason to listen to sad music anymore, because for once in my life I was happy.

The poems I wrote weren't just strings of word simply pressed against a dead tree someone processed so we can write on, but heavy weighted letters that put together the reasons why you could look at a person and feel more at home than the place you grew up in.

He sat there asking me how much I loved him,
I pictured the rest of my life,
and how nice it would be with him holding my hand for the rest of forever.
I didn't want to be cliche about it,
"As much as the night brings out the stars, after the hours of them being covered up."

I'm a little wilted orchid
poisonous and dead
if you aren't too careful love,
I might just lose my head.

Flowers aren't so pretty
when their colors aren't so bright
I haven't had colors in a long time love,
The sun has bleached me white.

Yet you still think I'm beautiful
Im grateful, darling its true
I am almost recovered love
and its all thanks to you.

Poetry’s carved into her flesh,
intertwined with her ribs
and parasitic on her brain, the softest ***** now that her thrashing chest hardened.

It’s the thorn of a plastic rose, jabbing her distinct print, and
analogies crawling down to her jaw line,
sprawling at individual forks of two points; it was always only two.

Melodic qualities burgled her mind to
exist in ubiquity throughout her pores
and soiled strands of hair pinched with a tie ten centimeters from the root.

Poetry, disobedient and sovereign,
lived to spell a testimony
individual to her since no one breathed her air.

Roses aren't always metaphors, you know.
For the ghosts in the walls that write poems about how you sleep.
For the shadows in empty closets that you fear will creep.
For the rivers you've travelled that leave burns on your arms.
For the faces pressed against windows that slip colours into the wind.
For deserted bus stops made of crushed beer tins.
For the bars filled with grannies and trannies and the best kind of sins.
Sometimes they're analogies.
And boy, are they lovely.

Clean endings never exist and I can't breathe when you're around.
I get stupid; I get dizzy.

You're like a bad taste in my mouth, I'm doing everything I can to clean you out.
You're every ****** word on the tip of my tongue.

Wounded birds have more fight left in them than I have standing in front of you today. I am a wimp in my own sense and fashion.

I can't think when you're around.
Do you understand the emotional breakdowns that go on inside my mind when you're around?

It feels like a blind person trying to read a book. Like a roller coaster flying off the tracks.

I love you more than I can explain in any sense. So much that I need to you get away from me before I end up insane.