My desperation is not discreet.
It sprays off my tongue every time we meet.
Like the octopus squirts ink to evade capture.
Inky I love you's flood from my mouth, a Tsunami of rapture.

Loving you is the ocean and desperation is decompression sickness.
Whenever I come up to breathe my head spins, nitrogen bubbles explode in place of butterflies.
Isolated on this lonely island, my clouded mind tears me asunder.
If I die a living death  you would be my beautiful, poetic blunder.

There is a study of some interesting production
That says that continents drift, but I disagree,
Listen if you will to my theory it's of a sort
That is of a very different decree.
In the beginning a planetoid smashed into the earth,
It would later become our moon, it was larger at first,
This matchless form of damage caused a great impact,
From which would later be whole continents birth.
The lava that flowed would be enough to make
Whole parts of Pangea sink, and huge amounts of
Ocean would poor into, eventually be. But this is my theory,
Why when the damage was done the magma flowed
So much from such areas, it formed what is now the
Colorado mountains, as well as the whole of Australia,
Japan, and the Polynese. I know this is just a theory, but I'd put
All I have into simply wanting to believe. The truth is always
Out there, and this is simply what ideas that I conceived.

Her arms are covered in ink,
doodles of barbaric things sprouting forth, like venus fly traps ready to pounce.
and words are branded on her arms like red scars.
Ink stains that scream hateful things

Not a single shred of skin is left untarnished
the ink is a cover up of her identity.
hiding her flesh with poisonous writing
the thoughts inside finally on show.

she covers her arms with long sleeve tops
to hide the hateful ink from the world
trying to keep some dignity of her own
yet still drawing childish hateful things on her arms

her face is blank, her eyes are emotionless
as she scrawls poetry and images on her arms till she draws blood.
she is just an emotionless zombie, an empty shell.
no longer existing in this world or belonging in it.

and thats how she'll always stay, forever here in body alone but never in mind or spirit. and always the unanswered question 'why do you do this to yourself?' floats around like an unrestful spirit.

Have you ever asked the question

How do pictures work?

They're just images of fleeting times

But worth a thousand words

I've got a box of thousands

In this box they're  safe at last

They're memories all stored away

Of my childhood and my past

What happened to those people ?

Who were captured for a second

I guess some died and some grew up

At least, that's what I reckon

Sad images and happy ones

Just echos never heard

But memories come flooding back

Each one....a thousand words

That holiday, the fishing trip

A birthday that was fun

Each just a sliver of your life

A time that is now done

Look back and you are younger

All those people still alive

That picture of you at the lake

Where you first learned how to dive

They all sit here inside the box

Not one can be discarded

For each one is a piece of me

Of how my whole life started

There's some I can't remember

Really, more than you should know

And some, well..there's that hairdo

That's just one I'll never show

You look at them and wonder

What possessed me on that day

To take a picture of that place

And now, I could'nt say

Most names are lost to memory

But the faces I recall

I might know who some are in them

But I do not know them all

I wish that as I see them

I could spend more time with them

It would be just something special

To share a moment once again

For now, the box is hidden

In a cupboard, in the back

A box of little snippents

That have made up my lifes track

You look at some and wish

You could always stay that way

But life is not a fairy tale

It isn't Dorian Gray

Best put the pictures back now

Bring them out in years to come

For their story of a thousand words

Must start with only one

Don't throw away one photo

For each one fills in a hole

They're  a picture of your being

And they all make up your soul

It's amazing how a picture

Wakes your mind, gives it a ****

Have you ever really wondered

Juist how do pictures work?

I could use a dose of gray
A little pepper of gloom
The heavy rain of a thousand skies
Or the four corners of a windowless room
I could use a dab of dark
An intriquite weaving of color
Steal a shade of black
And coerce it into another
I could use the oceans darkest hours
Or the deepest regrets of the night
I would love to meet blues sinister side
Or the pigment of Lizzy’s flower
As if gray in every shade were the only primary color
I could use some heavy rain
“Heavy Rain” -JP

Visceral reactions,
Overwhelming emotion,
Words flowing across the page,
Everything contained in the lines.

Life is poetry.
Poetry is our life.

The days we live,
The lives we carry on
It's all symbolism and imagery,
It's all poetry.