Maybe I've seen the Notebook too many times, but the concept of 'If You're A Bird, I'm A Bird' keeps growing exceedingly less absurd.
And ever since I saw A Walk to Remember I've always wanted to name a star after you so there would be two of you, and so I wouldn't have to share the original with the world.
Or was it so you could see the light in you that I see everyday and not only at night?
Alas, I can't seem to remember, but I'm certain it was both.
I've never been in a warzone outisde of my own life, but you've saved me from more harm than any bomb or rifle could inflict so I am indeed The Lucky One.
Whether sitting in silence or drowning in chaotic clamor I remember the first time you sang to me, and I recall my smiling like a fool
Let it be known that albeit I'm not actively seeking death, if it may find me I hope for that to be my Last Song.
Oh, and my darling
let your suspicions now come to light,
for  I indeed have always had an ulterior motive in loving you-
in you loving me.
That is for our love to create a Safe Haven to return to when the world has seemed to drain us of the hope we awoke with.
And yes my love,
I indeed am a bird if that is what you are as well,
but in tandem do I vow to be your Guardian on this Walk to Remember through This Bending Road of life.

Late at night a book lays open
words scribbled across the page
Regret
Hatred
Loneliness
Sadness
A pen hovers over the page
as he thinks of that one special girl
whose love chased it all away
and scribbles over all the hate, regret and loneliness
with one word...

My notebook
Full of words
Letters
Commas and periods

My notebook
Full of smudges
Eraser bits
Crinkles and creases

My Notebook
Full of messages
Hidden Meanings
Energy and life

My notebook
Is the place,
The book
In which
I write

sometimes/ it is hard to inhale through this mess of standing sentences and polite posture; the blue of a background and proud dimensioned paper – when it should be blue ink on you and i. the words here are selfish and greedy and angry, they throw darts and smile with emphasis but the ones i write with you are like f eathers and drowned beneath the corners. i want to rearrange them flip their coy glasses and fill them with warm water but i do not think my english teacher will corroborate and the magazines say no. my heart thickens like yours and i worry for the words because isn’t it hot where they are? aren’t they hungry or thirsty without their ribs? the pen shop is just across the street i want to tear them from dusty shelves and online guides and put them in our notebook without commas. they do not know spaces and i think - stuck in history it must be lonely;

I have ideas that never seem to stick
Like a spark that falters on a half-lit wick
I think “Eureka! Wow, I've done it again!”
But when I mold my thought-child that’s exactly when
I get booted off for no ticket on this train of thought
And the project derails into an old vacant lot
That lot is a notebook at the foot of my bed
It’s labeled “ideas” but it should read “drop dead”
My ideas are all just orphaned on paper
Their father held interest, but started to taper
“I’ll get to it sometime!” but no clock reads “some”
I just like the feeling of ideas under thumb
Is it arrogance? I hope not, just a stream of dumb luck
Or maybe I’m just afraid of being told that I ****