Love had a funny story to tell,
About this girl who always seem to find herself saying "oh well",
Because no matter how hard she try to not dwell,
Oh how the red flags are raised, ringing that one really loud bell,
But it wasn't because she was under a spell,
More because of how there's a quell,
Where even though she finds someone she'd gel (with),
For some odd reason things won't ever go her way for her to be all, "oh swell".

@byizn

Ugh, how can one person be so enjoyable?
When I’m with you my jaw legitimately hurts because of how frequently and how hard you make me laugh
You’re one of the funniest people I have had the pleasure of spending time with
You allow me to be myself and you let me make fun of you and you don’t think I’m a *****
If that’s not compatibility, then I don’t know what is
You understand self-deprecating humor and you understand the words I use and you laugh at the same things I laugh at
You know…I don’t like old movies
I hate black and white movies, I think they’re stupid and pointless and so boring and they lack color, what the **** is that ****?
But I want to watch them with you
I hated To **** a Mockingbird, hated it
It’s one of your favorite old pieces of literature and you can quote Boo Radley, and I may hate the novel but the fact that you respect such a highly acclaimed work of literature makes me respect you
I would watch that **** movie with you 100 times just to make you smile
You’re really something great

I’m so sorry I let us wither away

Pain and love are at one with the heart,
just as a poet and their words are one at spirit
Each, from a divorce of such bitter pastimes
to become one with one another, in mind and in soul

The heart craves love,
just as a poet craves a pencil and a paper,
at every moment of the day
To crave one another, is to build a kingdom
built on love and the powers of a dark past

To only be virtuous in the world,
to have the eyes yearn for the heart,
just as a poet looks in others for inspiration
For their eyes to meet words, just as the heart meets another
and often, to be rooted in each other, such a beautiful phrase

Pain and love are at one with the heart,
just as a poet and their words are one at spirit
Each from the darkest realms of life,
only to be joined to form a brighter road

-Chloe Aldecoa

I am the moon,
and sometimes I shine full in my dark,
and sometimes I shine half in my dark,
and sometimes I am the darkness myself.

I have a way of saying I love you 
To every word that escapes my mind 
Where do you travel to? 
Do you fall beneath conscious sheets 
Or attach to my soul with glue? 
How many days I spent collecting you? 
In a noisy basket full of pride and panic
I guess half a dozen and few. 
Enchanted by your power, your snobbish hue
I search an empty basket over, over again 
This breath is wasted! This mind is subdued.
Tina RSH ©

I've learned my ABCs at one,
learned to read by four,
constructed my paragraphs at six,
a know-it-all reciting parts of speech by seven.

Letters assembled themselves ready for scrabble.
Rocks, paper, scissors,
I never learned to let go of the paper.
And grew up with dry fingers caressing books.
Breathing in language and literature.

They say you can only love something so much
until it leaves you empty.
But I've only ever truly loved a few things about life,
and first was how words strung empathy.

The way I wrote about tying yellow ribbons on trees for a hero at eleven,
wrote about anything that won me passports to a passion I had to sacrifice a few years later after fourteen,
wrote about the boy who broke my heart at seventeen,
wrote about the monsters in my head at nineteen.

I don't know how words always found me
whenever I tried to run away from the world;
how they kept my sanity along with melodies for as long as I can remember,
and made countless others feel less alone.

What I love is a weapon
that has sparked revolutions, waged wars.
What I love is art that built acropolises from embers
and most the world's wonders.

It rushes euphoriant through my veins as much as it does through yours,
yet it is neither blood nor oxygen.
It is all the words burning as we keep them hidden,
dying for us to give them meaning.

I like words
The way they give you power
To go anywhere
To do anything
To forget

I found a cloak in fluttered paper,
paper that stands still...

Two stiff ends bind, enclose my yoke,
to those stories that do reveal...

Bound and stiff, yoked, yet so whimsy,
the paper doth conceal.

Undrape the cloak to become the man,
life becomes the thrill.

Never do sit still
Never do sit still
Never do sit still

The definition of Man is not thought alone...