Love is peace
That burns with desire,
The passion can char your soul.
Love is free
And the payment required,
To give and to embrace a soul

Love is blind
It sees into your heart
At the kindness, the beauty within.
Love is hope
That despairs when we part
And yearns for your arms to return

Love is calm
It torments the head
It breaks and it shatters your pride
Love is hard
As it softens instead
The wasteful tears you’ve cried

Love is fire
That quenches your trust
And consumes your body, your mind
Love is wild
As it tames your lust
And fills your heart every time

Love is you
You are all I that I need
Your star shines bright through the day
Love is me
My soul,
it is freed
With your passion burning my way

Love is us
You were worth the wait
With your fingers entwined in mine
Love is us
Our lives steeped in fate
Eternity together,
forever combined

People can still hurt you,
Even though they love you.

You can still love someone,
Even though they hurt you.

You can still hurt someone,
Even though you love them.

m.e.

Summer gets darker,
Sun begins to fade,
Our lives get more wise, through the dances of autumns haze.
Leaves fall off and a charmed aroma of sweet cider symphonies come down the trees unto hearts that bleed.
Enjoy the rich colors autumn brings, deep burgundy red, grape purple, golden bronze and chocolate sweetness floats into the air of a summoned season that we call Fall.
Delicious treats on our tongue touched pallets,
soft, warm, chewy cinnamon buns, red stains covering our lips from that glass bitten candy apple we bought at the fair. Smells of apple cider and maple syrup and our lovers kiss that is smooth like a pumpkin spice dream when my chap stick smothers your face in such delightful ways.

Every smile,
every touch
and every word
we ever shared were
poems unto themselves.

You deserve to win
the Nobel Peace Prize
for bringing peace to this heart.
It has known nothing
but war and disarray
for far too long.
Thank you.

lover thy,
don't know what to do
or say,
im just happy around you

Our talks of the sunset
Were poems themselves