I love her sweet and sour
the taste, I devour
addicted to the scent .
Finger licking good.
Like a strong whiskey sour,
an acquired taste,
established pleasure.
I liquor lace,
she comes with haste
to the third power.

I devour,
  each moment,
  we encounter,
each other.

        Every second
        of every minute,
        and every minute,
        of every hour.

I’m a broken poet
Who longs to write
About sadness
love
heartbreak
Although, I haven’t experienced either

I’m a broken poet
For, I have so much
Left to say
Yet, I search for words
Every single day

I’m a broken poet
For, my words
Do not spill
On these empty sheets

I’m a broken poet
For, the words
That I write
Do not reach
People’s hearts
They get lost
In the depths
Of this crowded world

I’m a broken poet
For, my words
Do not carry the pain
And suffering that
Other’s have felt

I’m a broken poet
For my words
Do not feel
Like a warm hug
From your favorite person
On a cold day

I’m a broken poet
For my words cannot console
A broken soul
To not give up
And sail through life

I’m a broken poet or
I’m not;
Maybe,
I’m just a broken person
With words left to say
But no one to hear them
-RB©

I’m clamoring in the stale sheets.

Twisting and turning my body and mind.

I’m drowning in the streaks of defeats.

Awakened and humbled as night and morning slowly become intertwined.

I’m flailing in the wind of obsoletes.

Accepting and acknowledging my unrefined state of mind.

I’m progressing in the ability to make peace.

I’m going to be ok.
I’m going to be fine.
I’m going to be ok.

I love myself, finally.

I was the ink
on her pristine page
I wrote in a language
only her heart could
convey