Her eyes are poetry, and
Each blink of her eyes is a poem.
Her voice is poetry, and
Each of her words is a poem.
Her thinking is poetry, and
Each of her thoughts is a poem.

My love for her is poetry, and
Each of my expressions for her is a poem.
My care for her is poetry, and
Each of my suggestions for her is a poem.
My desire for her is poetry, and
Each expression of my romance for her is a poem.

Our mutual attraction is poetry, and
Each of our confessions to one another is a poem.
Our eternal relationship is poetry, and
Each of our manifestations for one another is a poem.
Our way of talking to each other is poetry, and
Each of our conversations with one another is a poem.

I want the world to open up and swallow me.
Intense, right? But intensity runs through my veins
the kind that bleeds passion,
the kind that demands expression, not just words, but poetry,
the kind of deep that sinks to the bottom of the ocean,
where it’s dark and raw, where I belong.
I know, not everyone is ready for waters like these,

but I thrive in the depths.
It scares people off, sometimes.

****. ****.
Okay, here I am again, not holding back.
I wonder—should I shrink, soften the edges?
Should I cut the fire down?
How do I even begin to stop feeling so much?
What does it mean to feel less, to express less?
If I feel less, I say less, and if I say less, I lose pieces of myself.
I’m not willing to lose her.

So, I let myself feel.
I cry, I rage, I break,
but in those moments, I’m alive.
I stomp, I speak, I let it all out, because if I don’t,
I dishonor who I am and the very essence of this human experience.
I would rather break a thousand times,
hurt again and again,
than let this world turn me bitter

I want my writing
To be profound
A work of art you just
Want to hang on your wall
And when you look at it
Day in and out
The words will seep
Back through your skin
And melt in your heart
And suddenly, you feel
Like someone you've never met
Knows you better than
Your closest companions
And somehow that's okay
Because now you know
You've never been alone.

I often wonder what my life would hold
without the liberty of writing
of expressing the inexpressible
tragedies that glitter the world
but I'm pretty sure that
I wouldn't want to be here
anymore