A steady minded person might tell you that everything can be measured, calculated and converted into a language of black and white, solutions worked out with sharpened pencils.

How do I measure my heart breaking?

Tell me,at what rate did my heartstrings snap when he told me he was leaving?
How long until all of my broken bones turn into dust?
Calculate at what speed the tears rolled down my checks.
How many doctors will it take to sew my heart back together?
Was it when he crumpled me up like a wasted idea etched onto a piece of notebook paper that everything started to bleed?
What part of my brain did his gentle hands touch that woke my monsters from their slumber?
How many days until this aching in my swollen chest turns into a gentle throb?
When will I be okay again?

Takes this pain and your sharpened pencils and rip the numbers from the dead hands of his name. Do away with the emotion like he did away with me.

The way you make me feel is incredible. Nothing like the first, nothing like the second, I may have loved them but, not like I love you. I have never met anyone that makes me feel the way you do. My head filled with a no vacancy sign, but the electricity was out; somehow you fixed it. That "no" shines brighter than it ever has before.

When you said, "When you put your hands on me." The thought I caused you even just for a moment, to be afraid of me, just breaks my heart. For you filled my life with nothing, but natural smiles and joy rides. I wish I would have appreciated and it all more.

I'm the last man on this earth who should take anyone willing to enter my dark, closed off & broken structure. Anyone willing to enter my life of chaos and mystery is more daring than any human before. If you persist, you'll come to the place that shatters the pain those with reckless hearts left me. You'll open a pure, passionate soul. To get to the damaged site, you will have to fight through the maze. Those who hid my affection left no map. I think you were almost there. You had me but like most something in my destroyed halls of lost love. My guards spooked you off. You ran far away and left me empty again. Lonely again. I had begun to draft our story. I'm hoping you'll decide whatever barricade halted your journey, brings you back. My hand hurts from writing first drafts. I desire our story to be everlasting. So long the Bible envies it.

If you can make it to the place where love is locked, you have found the key. The key to my heart. Promise me to leave that no on my vacancy sign forever lit.

good, so good
that's what they say about it-
but when I peer down at the scrawl
led-dragged, so heavily
I know it can never be enough.

bokeh lights and smoke streams
an insignificant metaphor-
just as Love is an understatement.
bullet wounds don't match
how hard You hurt.

discontent gets old
and eight months of displeasure
of dead static psychosis
have rendered me useless;
defined me as dead
to whatever connection I held
with beauty, glory,
understanding.

so good, they say
as the pictures piece together
in the minds hungry eye,
starving to relate,
unknown to the fact
it can never catch the passion;
the poetry is powerless.

Some people can wade and be okay
but if I enter, I know I'll stay
please don't make me promises
I know once I'm stuck you'll go away

some people are not afraid to pass through
I dip my toes in and traps me like glue
that's why I was gonna run away from you
but i look down and I'm already doomed

you see I thought that I'd tread lightly
but that concrete grips my ankles tightly
while you can easily act all flighty
your final flight will be unsightly

I'm glad you're having a splashing time with me
but i knew i shouldn't have even dipped my feet
through your back strokes and front strokes you cannot see
I'm stuck here in this liquid concrete

Every morning
When the sun breaks
Over the misty horizon
And crawls in through our open windows
I open my eyes,
Kiss your lips,
And tell you that I love you

You grin,
Kiss my forehead with your sleepy smile,
And ask,
"But, darling,
What IS love?"

You ask me this every sunrise
Just so you can close your eyes
And listen to me tell you

"Well,"
I say,
"Love is a rain-soaked notebook
Crammed with poetry
Written on diner napkins.
Love is an old, wooden box
Filled with letters
That have been buried in the woods
For hundreds of years.
Love is a cloudy glass jar
Filled with pennies and nickels.

"Love is the sound of a gentle thunderstorm
At three in the morning.

"Love is an abandoned cemetery
Where no one but the ghosts who are bound inside its gates
Are left to tend to the plastic flowers.
Love is an empty bed
With a carefully folded piece of paper
Resting on one of the pillows.

"Love is a blood-stained sun dress.

"Love is an unfinished poem,
Abandoned by both the pen
And by the heart.
Love is a desktop piled high with scented candles
And fat, unopened envelopes.
Love is stepping outside during a storm
Without an umbrella."

There is silence
Surrounded by the sound
Of your heart beating against my chest

"Is that all?"
You ask me,
Your eyelids fluttering
Fighting to stay open
For just another moment.

"Of coarse not,"
I tell you
"Love is so many things."

"Then tell me."
You say,
"I want to know them all."

"Alright,"
I say,
Concealing a smile,
"Love is an early morning parade
Led by butterflies and hummingbirds.
Love is a bleeding sunset
Struck by Cupid's arrow
And sinking below the mountains
To die peacefully in the arms of the earth.
Love is a disease
Spread by lingering eyes in a crowded room
And soft fingers
Dancing across cool skin.
Love is a demon that possess every soul
At least once
Leaving it broken and bleeding
But with a purpose.
Love is a prison run by criminals,
An asylum for the sane
Governed by unstable patients.

"Love is an apology
Crafted by the heart
And butchered by the mouth on the way out.
Love is a puckered, purple scar
That you have no memory
Of adding to your collection.
Love is a fire
Desperately trying to put itself out
With dry brush
And hot grease.
Love is a gaping, bleeding wound
That cannot be healed by stitches
Or by time.

"Love is an ocean of sailors
Drowning because they had placed so much of their trust
In their ship
That they never bothered to learn how to swim.
Love is a field full of dead flowers
Wilted and rotted to black pulp.
Love is a broken doorbell
With an idiot on one side
Who refuses to knock
And a deaf man on the other
Who would not be able to hear
The bell
Or the knocking anyway.
Love is an acoustic guitar
With three broken strings
And a hole worn in the side.

"Love is an empty promise
Fulfilled by happenstance.

"Love is a deep sea fish
That has known only cold, heavy water
And darkness
All his life
But still dreams every night
Of flying.
Love is a gruesome nightmare
That you are fortunate enough to forget
The moment you wake up."

I pause
I listen to the deep and heavy rhythm
Of your breathing
And I know you are asleep.
I shuffle and slide in the sheets
And tuck myself under your arms
Placing your hands on my bare waist

"Love is scary, and exciting,
And painful, and ridiculous,
And draining
All at the same time."
I tell you,
"But it's worth every second."

I close my eyes,
Kiss each one of your fingertips,
And press the palm of your hand
Against my beating heart.

"I love you."
I whisper,
"Now and forever."

I’m afraid to let you in
Because you already intruded
I’m afraid to walk hand and hand with you
For as soon as I give you my hand, you’ll drag me in your direction
I’m afraid to let you take the wheel
In fear that you may not give it back

There was a man in a bright white suit.
His date was dressed in charcoal gray.
Dressed were they for a dance at school.
“You look quite dapper!” most would say.

His date’s best friend was also there.
Dressed in white with beautiful hair.
Her date was dressed in charcoal gray.
The same color to his dismay.

The man in the white suit noticed
That the dates’ grays matched perfectly.
A red blotch on his chest showed this.
The girl in white talked carelessly.

Her dress remained pure, without mark.
His suit was all white, but the heart.
The man broken, ready to die.
Her, clueless, not even a sigh.

The man began to long for her,
Even though she was not his date.
He felt so hurt, he was not sure.
Should he tell? Or is it too late?

He had wanted to share this pain,
But her pure white dress would be stained.
He dropped the sin between the two,
Leaving the girl without a clue.

As of now that blotch shows bright red.
Only his date knows what it means
Or wise folk whom this poem have read.
The white dressed girl still purely gleams.