Who else would listen,
But* you?

       You take every inch of self-blasphemy and agony I have to offer
           You hear every half muttered feeling
                        Every cut
I only used the blood to tell you what I thought

      Our love was one most often found and subsequently lost in childhood
    Before the sunset of adolescence brings dark into the world
      And in its depths
We realize how small we are
          How far we are from places that feel safe
                          Our love was a shield against that
    I could tell you my secrets and you'd shine brightly, make the world small again, if but for a while

         It was you I stayed up all night to talk to
             Underneath the covers with a flashlight and a pen and YOU.

   God, you.

          You listened to every insignificant detail of who I was and in your foggy dialect made me feel vindicated

          You've always been,
And as long as you have, I've loved you.
       Dear Poetry, my God, have I loved **You

I'm not sure that you can see

Or even know just what I mean

There is this poem that has no words

That still is begging to be heard

In the deafening silence it reaches out

In the still of darkness to be found

A path through the mind makes its way

A path that no words have ever laid

A poem that found out long ago

That words only slow down the flow

There is no way of reading it

As in the mind is where it lives

Falling for a poet
is like swimming in an ocean
of warm, blue water,
with currents that never cease
and waves with a constant flow.

Natural, the water is,
though some would call it
*****, unfiltered* & dangerous-
and dangerous it is, absolutely!
Swim in too deep and
you'd probably drown in its volume!

Oceans cannot be tamed,
Oceans cannot be blamed,
Oceans can be changed.

But if you do get out of the ocean alive,
if you do manage to conditionally survive,
you would be leaving the water
*****, poisoned & polluted.  

Hence, the poet shall write.