I speak with poets old and almost ancient,
Pressing their books against my burning chest,
Trying to stay with their verses patient,
Understood by few, complex to the rest.
I read the sonnets of the lovestruck Bard,
In little books who're filled with lofty meanings,
Finding it sometimes easy, and sometimes hard
To really understand 'bout what he sings.
My colored imagination is filled
With worlds unknown to windows of souls,
Right there, only with sweet tenderness build,
Making it easier to reach my goals,
    I travel, see and float with poetry,
    To gates of other worlds, while she's my key.

Writing
Synonymous with a drug
Miming the story in my head
Does not take the edge
Off.
No,
I must physically take a swig
Sling the pen on the paper
See the words in their truest form
Word-***** on the page
Drunk with laughter, tears and rage
High on prose
People
And places
I must create
Or I'll die
Just one more sentence
Maybe two
And then I'll find my way
In this bed I'll stay
This will be the last time
I write at 3am
...
I promise...

I hope one day I find someone that knows how to catch me when I fall,
kisses me so I can shut up,
listens attentively to every word I say when I think I talk too much.

Someone that bends down to tie my shoelace.
A friend,
a lover,
a shoulder to cry on
and a back to give my inner child a piggy back ride.

someone to play with me,
someone that entices me and keeps my passion alive,
Someone that keeps the fire in my burning because I am already lit.

I am already burning I’m just so tired of people that put out my fire instead of adding fuel to let me truly flourish.

Do you feel as young as you do— By the gazelle or doe,
passion dripping off lip's honey dew,
Behold all winters past— Flowers singing voices
of turtledoves, ripen the joys of my heart;

Arise to me, but come away— Sweet voice and a
lovely face, as I taste your name.
A banner over me, is your love, stirred up by desire,
I'd do any all for my— Oh beloved.