Get attached to books,
And fall in love with words.

The pen is the puppeteer,
And the paper the audience.

Words come quite easily to me. But whenever I'm trying to write about you... I feel inadequate.
I take pride in being a writer, the notorious person who makes magic with the pen and the paper.
But you render me helpless.. With no words to rhyme.
Do you see, The kind of effect you have over me?
You are turning a poet's life into a poetry.

It works that way
I cannot write about someone
Unless I have felt a certain way
Unless there it is
The potential
I can no longer be without them.

I let time pass
Which I never do
Once I am inspired
I will write on the spot
Under any circumstance

On my brown skin with a marker
On the back of this flyer
Even on the magazine cover
That belongs to the hair parlor.

I think of you fondly
But my wont to write
Never comes out ardently
The paper still blank
Though I let months turn things around.

Writing is my sole indicator
If not on paper,
It will not last in time either.

She longed to love
today she loves
with all her love,
a different kind of love
the love that the world needs
over and over

I am not saying she doesn't love
of course she does
she loves in a different love than
the other love
a love that her friends know

She's full of love
the love they love to receive
the love that colors your days
the kind of love that loves to love
the biggest of loves

With all that love
she still longs for the love of lovers
the love for the love of
the love for the insanity of
the love for the recklessness for
the greatest of loves

She's full of love
but longs for that love
the one with the brown hair
and the hazel eyes
that
kind
of
love

While on a beach, when she kissed me with the urgency of a sensitive poison, I could not help but scatter across the shore-lengths, the households of my heart, allowing room only for the remedy, I looked beyond her and forgot to make room for her smile, that went unnoticed fading as a shadow on my face.

Come quick,
take away the pen.

I’m writing about things,
I shouldn’t be feeling again.

I want to write
Sometimes I just want to write
Pen and ink, sight a beautiful sight
Create images, of dancing twilight
Ships sailing into the horizon
Wishing pennies in a fountain of
Wise hopes,
A kind bloke, seeking solace
And a clean robe
To seek shelter
And unwind of sorts

"You were born to do this."
I reminded myself as I sat there feeling encaged in a flurry of endless thought and emotion.
"Why do I have to feel every aspect of every event of life, so deep?"
I thought as I fought myself once again to simply pick up the pen and drain the overflow of despondency onto paper.
"Breathe."
The words, letters, verbs and thoughts continued to swirl in my ever rampantly unsettled abyss of ideation.
Once I surrendered to the raging of the erupting of the soul..there was calm.
It's likened to the deaf..taken away their ability to sign..The dancer with both feet removed.
Had I no other pleasure but to expel grief, fervor and elation and form them into words to heal the shattering so entrenched..they appear unreachable..I'd beg to be buried with just a writing utensil and endless reams of freshly pressed paper.
"Theres Light."*
I mouth that..as I continue to jot as if I were stitching my heart back together with this pen.
Even though I'm within this seemingly grave like cave of aching..I can write.
The beauty is in the creation..The ability to construct, like a carpenter..all that your heart desires with your own two hands..to simply Heal the paragraphs of life that were written badly, write over them or erase and rewrite..if only it were that easy.
I don't aim to undo..I cannot.
Just to poetically fabricate from this point on..allow the stumbles to happen and Love greater than thought fathomable.
Surrender. To the page.
Scribble it out, empty it onto line after line..and crawl atop..until the words fill the fragments and the ink stains your fingertips..Keep climbing upon the proverbial stacks of paper until the towers reach the aperture of the pit.
Creating the mending of affliction, soothing the misery of the choking of words you cannot utter, but you can scratch them onto tablets to deplete the churning of the mind.
Write. Write badly.
Write as if in a mad race to the finish line, then start over again..Until the trails of Letters stretch so long..you could dance upon them for days.
Then Breathe.
Soak every word into your skin as if attempting to heal the afflictions..
then Become it.

You can reprehend me
all you want,
but please
don't smear my words.

They're my
feelings,
my world;
the only written whispers
I know to be
true.

Do not let them confine you
your words and guidelines clash
like enemies

Do not let them lead you
your words are as stubborn as a taurus
with the head of an aries

Do not let them **** you
your words can revive characters
that their ancestors encounters

Do not let them stress you
your words defeat the greatest of antidepressants
making prozac seem like candy

Do not let them attack you
your words shield their insults
leaving your core pure and true

Do not let them defeat you
your words are yours and yours alone
understanding is their problem

Do not simply do not give in
your words are your own
the worlds your create are your own
rules, no rules, chaos and mess
guidelines or no guidelines
the perk of being a writer
is that head of theirs
that rests on their shoulders
harnesses worlds, characters
lives, lovers, spirits
yearning to
taste paper
feel ink
and
be discovered