By now, you have probably read a handful of warnings about falling in love with writers. About how they can take you to the brightest moons or bury you to the core of the earth just by spilling their ink. About how they can forget about mundane things such as your anniversary or what time they should pick you up at work. But they remember the most intricate details such as how your freckles align on your nose or how you stir your coffee when you’re too nervous to start the day. You must have an idea about how they can build a pedestal for you to step on as if you were born to be glorified. Yet the moment you break their hearts they will write you so cruel, the history will remember your name as synonymous to tragedy. Don’t fall in love with writers, they always say. As if your life depends on it.

By the time you meet me, you will know right away that words are my way of becoming. You will sense it by the way I phrase my thoughts or how my eyes light up when talking about strange but fascinating ideas such as alternate universes or the other side. I will reference quotations from the books which pages I rummaged on every single night that I couldn’t sleep and share to you my theories about the lives of my favorite characters as if they are real. I will hold your hands and take you to bookstores and coffee shops and look at you as if you are the loveliest view. I will watch the sunset with you and listen to the sound of the waves crashing to the shore and I will stargaze with you as I confess all the wishes that I only whisper to every constellation. And I will write to you. My text messages will be like love letters that are meant to translate my heartbeats. I will whisper poetry in between our calls. And I will write for you, write about you, write like you are the destination to my unending journey.

By the moment you feel like maybe, just maybe, you are falling for me, will you run away? Will you recall every warning that you have ever read and cringe by the thought of becoming a poem? Will you struggle to break free from my embrace for you are afraid that I will strangle you when the time comes that you decide you don’t want me anymore? Will you look at my love as a hurricane and run for shelter elsewhere because you are terrified of drowning? Or will you welcome my kisses and surrender to my every touch because you don’t want to let go of this feeling? Will you hold me like you will never drop me? Will you put your arms around me and protect the world that I created for myself from the harsh bits of reality? Will you read my words over and over again, memorize every line, embed every sentence in your mind and bury them in your heart like precious treasures that others don’t have the right to get hold of?

If you are going to fall for me, fall not for the flowery meadow that I grow using my proses but for the way I caress your skin just to ease your tiredness. If you are going to stay, stay not because of how I paint you with the most vibrant words but because of how I understand you and accept you beyond all your flaws and imperfections. If you are going to hold me, hold me not because of the warmth that the blanket of my sonnets that can give you but because of the comfort that my presence can cause you even if we are surrounded by silence.

Forget all the warnings that you have ever read about not falling in love with a writer and love me. Love me not because of how words anchor me to myself but because I am human who deserves to receive love and who was born yearning to give it away just like everyone else. Love me as I love you and make me realize that the reality of you and I is so much greater than all the universes that I have penned down, combined. Love me without words. And we will be enough. We will be enough.

You blow my rationale
like the angry wind
stripping me
from logic

You step into my garden
of innocence
coloring my dull being
with every footprint

You awaken my dormant nature
blossoming every flower
sprinkling spring
everywhere

You kiss my hibernating heart
warming it from the crisp
cold winter outside

You ripple emotions
across my vast body
triggering a field
of goosebumps

You walk your fingers
untangling my curls
as they stroll from my nape
upwards

You trace paths
along my face
drawing a perfect picture
of beauty
your
beauty

the people around me
don't understand what it's like
to be stuck living in
what seems like the smallest town in
the world
with a mind and dreams bigger
than the whole galaxy.
it feels like suffocating.
like each day passing I'm going
deeper into the water.
only hoping to one day
be set free.

Falling in love will always hurt. Even if you get to marry them & have the happiest moment of your life, walking down the aisle or waiting at the altar for your lover. One of you will have to leave sooner or later.

Scenario #1, they die first. That **** will hurt. You will no longer feel their arms around you. The softness of their hair will be missed by your hand. Those late night movie marathons and fort-buildings will all become memories. Because they're gone. And as they leave, they took every single particle of you with them. And it's going to hurt for the rest of your life.

Scenario #2, you die first. You will spend seven years in whatever place you may go after you die, waiting for them. And sometimes, you will inevitably watch them move on and worse, fall in love with someone new. When it's time for them to die, there's a possibility that they might not even look for you in heaven or hell. For they're going to be busy waiting for their new lover to follow them into the light.

And you will become a distant memory.

Love will always hurt.

There is little success in writing, none of any wealth, not without selling
your soul.
It seems that these days our book store shelves are slaves to **** literature,
and our computers are ruled by the pop-up one time self help blog Kings & Queens.
They all seemed to believe that their writing is filled from the truth buried within the heart and soul, and tireless nights slaving over the blank page, but few really torture their souls to bleed onto the page. Few watch as the bottles empty beside the array of snubbed out cigarette ends, all for the perfect tale, all for the best story. But it is never good enough, because to be tortured, you are never to be satisfied. There is no fame with writing, there is no success,
that only comes in death.

I took your hand in mine
and walked down the streets
of tiled memories
yet to be carved

I stole your cigarette
from between your fingers
just like you stole my feelings
without noticing

I lit it in the passenger seat
next to you, just like the way
your eyes light up when they fall
upon my sight

I looked at you, next to me
and mentally snapped moments
without you noticing

I took a drag from your cigarette
the same way I take your breath away
when you kiss me

I filled my lungs with sinful smoke
the same way I fill your mind with wicked
thoughts of me

I exhaled fumes of sighs
the same way you do when I embrace
you for a while

I rolled down my window
and felt liberated, like you do
when you lie there on my bed
with a smile on  your face

I put my hand out
to dance with speed, feeling the wind
caress my hand like you do
when you want to comfort me

I took a sip from that cheap can of alcohol
and smiled, it was cold and sweet
just like your skin, when you sleep next to me
in winter

I felt sedated, borderline drunk
just like you when I lay my skin
on  yours overdosing you with heaven on earth

I rested my head on the seat
and marveled at the night sky
wondering how such simple beauty
can be so mesmerizing
the same way you marvel
at my eyes,
when they wake up
and
light your
dawn

Come hither writer,
Set the stage.
The voice of choice and reason,
Have not aged.
Paint the world in your words of all,
This the place belly up is so small.
Have you no reason or rhyme?
To take in those breaths,
Time after time.
Fiercely show the power you hold,
Frightening words of bold.
No creased pages beseech you,
Every word you wrote.
Only to feature you,
Tiny drawings to entertain your mood.
When the days of the dry well,
Bequeath you.
So writer,
Set the stage.
And with your words,
Amaze.

I heard this song once
trumpets of adrenaline
and beats of joy
combined to shoot my heart
with the best drug
my body has ever tasted

I heard this song once
it was 1 am, with drums
of elation mixed with decadent vibrations
my eyes couldn't handle it
they cried with joy

I heard this song once
in the back seat of a car
my limbs awakened
with movements reaching
higher for something better

I heard this song once
with drops of emotions
repeating, beating, dropping
with ineffable beauty
that words went silent

I heard this song once
my whole being shook
to the sound
that music can gift
and
my soul
moaned
with
pleasure

I may not know what words to speak
When meeting new people, I'm a little weak
But I'll still watch closely and listen well
To capture the story they're all dying to tell

To the green eyed goddess
I must admit that I have never written
about my muse before, so this may sound strange.
You see she is a green eyed goddess.
Her hair is spun heaven’s gold
and she moves with the grace of falling leaves.
When she dances the stars shine brighter
and my world becomes peaceful.

But what makes her a goddess is internal.
The fire inside is a warm light that says all are welcome.
Even when she is fighting the demons inside;
she always has a smile for me.

Words are under her spell.
She takes those twenty six and creates like paint on a canvas.
A master chef who makes a feast for all to enjoy.
A pure soul who takes everything life gives her and makes it beautiful.

That is why I write to the green eyed goddess.
Praying that for a moment, I can use words to summon the sun
into her darkness. That I can make her smile one more time,
and know that the world is still at peace.
Her hands were made to create,
so I will use mine to protect.
So know you know about my muse.