To fall for you,
Not your looks,
Your personality.
You to make me smile,
Uncontrollably smile,
Even when I don't want to.
To not feel alone,
Even when I am,
Just to know that,
You are there.
To be happy,
With you,
Because of you.
Us,
But what is us,
Because us hasn't happened.
To deserve you,
No matter what happens,
I'm not deserving of you,
I'm not deserving of happiness.
You.

Creative minds shine through silent shadows
Freer thoughts run along the edges
Of boundary lines untied
Distracted less distressed
Confinement now a guest
In a safer space to play
Separate states arrange personal traits
To trust the chance of expectations
Enforce the plight of set objectives
Opportunities arise to compliment
Though every aim cannot be met
We suit our direction and intent

the pain rampant to my emptied faith,
showered upon a cautious bed of weeping lilies,
loots a once blissful child
whom begs to **** the relic sun...

I can feel her love the way I feel the desert winds
of a tangerine evening hurling off the mountains
as they reach for the end of the summer solstice.

She sings beneath the bridge of god.

Oh, how spirits that make the nature of whispers
known to my fleshly ears dance to her innocent voice.

I can see her crown among the thorned rose vista,
****** by her favoring tobacco musk,
and it cascades about the once savage lands
of the wanning moon.

Her crown is redolent
with the astral fragerence of eden.

I have walked past the dawn
and gazed upon the serpent of the sea,
it has been raised only to bow before her loving words.

Oh, what peace she brings,
and how effortlessly I see the maiden,
for I must hear her
sing beneath the bridge of god.

My writing will never be nice.
It will never have rhyme or reason or hold iambic pentameter.
It is not typewritten on aged paper bought from a small bookstore, carried home hurriedly under a black coat in a downpour.
My experiences are not universal,
on the contrary,
they are painfully singular stories.
My writing will never be featured in a book,
or on the front page of a trusted source,
it will be buried away in a desk,
dormant with the other scraps of musings once cherished.
I am not one like Keats, Byron, Frost, Dickinson, or Poe,
I, for all intents and purposes, am a fawn lost in the forest,
admiring the sights and sounds around me,
listening to those wise ones who can describe them in such perfect tone.
It would be fair to say that I am not even a poet,
I am simply a brain that thinks,
A body that moves,
And a soul that feels that very special something.

i cant rite.
eye saw no place to write.
words never felt the same.
they meant one thing
then another.
i wish my words were noticed like a poet.