He can’t stand to love,
Yet he can’t stand to hate,
Afraid of exposure,
Its vulnerable weight.
So he builds up his walls,
To protect him from feeling,
Covering old wounds,
Which keeps them from healing.
And she sees he’s guarded,
Yet tries to unveil
The past he is hiding,
His secrets to tell,
Hating his walls,
But she can’t tear them down.
Wherever she is,
He just builds them around.

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose ***** snow has lain,
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me
But only God can make a tree.

You wrote the notes inside your secret diary.
And day by day, the pages filled up.

You got yourself another set of blank pages.
And to this day, you keep writing more.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

Again and again, you contemplate letting it out,
the secrets of your inner thoughts,
begging to be screamed.

You want the world to know what it feels like,
the boys, the toys, the heartbreaks, and the dreams.

Don't hide it.
Let it be seen.
Your success isn't by their acceptance;
success is being free.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

Not everyone will love every wrinkle when you're sixty-three.
Maybe your rhymes aren't for them, but they're for me.
Share them.
I wanna hear them.
Let them roar.

The pages aren't blank.
You know you wrote them for more.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

[ Caution ]
[ Fragile ]

Our legs tangle together beneath tables.
Our smiles complete each other.
Your eyes are crystal blue.
Mine are a crimson red.

You reach over and caress my hand.
It feels good when you rub my knuckles.
You place a kiss.
It feels good.

But,
uneasy.

I love when you hold my waist.
We ballroom dance in the small kitchen space.
You rest your head on my thighs.
It feels nice.

You pull open my skin to look at my heart.
Your mouth gapes open.
Are you surprised to see it shattered apart?
It wasn't my choice, however.

Not mine,
not at all.

You hold red glass, cutting your skin.
Hurriedly you try to put them together.
I've been hurt before.
What's a little more?

Two pieces connect at the hip.
You smile through bloodied hands.
The pieces shiver in your touch.
You caress them with such compassion.

It stings,
but in a good way.

Slowly but surely, the pieces stick together.
A glass heart, torn at the seems.
You place it back, and stitch me up.
You smile at me, though your hands are scratched.

I kiss your wounds.
You cry for me.
I never believed in true love.
But this time, I'll give it a shot.

Enslaved within a world of privilege.
Born into a caste of rawhide bone reconstruction.

Forced to dance for others enjoyment.
Persuaded to serve as not to feel the aching belly of a starving cell.

Languages spoken by the host, which to me seem only foreign.
Tempted by lust withheld for my master exposed.

Chaotic fantasies of a family within the ranks.
By serving you I found my freedom.