“Love is a feeling!” they said to me then,
their eyes all a-twinkle, their mouths a big grin.
“You’ll feel flapping in your stomach, like the wings of a dove,
and that’s how you know that it is true love.”

“Love isn’t real,” they said to me after,
tears on their cheeks, and lives void of laughter.
“I guess it’s not something you feel in your gut;
they tell you they love you, then choose to give up.”

“Love is a choice,” I’m telling you now.
It’s not about the what, but instead the how.
It’s ok to choose that it’s just not right,
but remember: you must also choose to
stay
and
fight.

I’ll write you song with words you’ve never heard before,
But I promise it’s a love song if you just listen to the chords.
I’ll love you in a way entirely my own design;
I’m nothing if not yours, even if you’ll never quite
be mine.

They say to avoid epithets when referring to a person in writing
But you are all adjectives
All honey-eyed,
bright-smiled,
lithe-bodied,
deft-handed,
warm-freckl­ed,
soft-haired,
and most of all,
much-loved.

I am not afraid of Death
I am not afraid of death because we can never truly die
Our memories, our faces, our names, live on in the minds of those who love us and hate us alike
Even decay is a form of life, in bacteria and fungi and insects
Our rot will become the plants that feed our children or even another of our own lives
Life becomes death becomes life; in this, we are infinite
I am not afraid of death I am not afraid of death I am not afraid
Of life

I step into the shower.
If this was a book, the almost-too-hot water would be a metaphor, for the emotional warmth or passion or intimacy I’m missing.
Maybe it is a metaphor. Maybe it’s just cold outside.
Either way, the water sears my skin,
But god, at least I’m feeling something.

I was tired of the suns
that had left me burnt.
They shone so bright,
but in the end, they just hurt.

But you are the rain,
so calm, so clear.
All I see is color
when you are near.

They look at me
Without really looking at me
All They can see
Is what They want me to be

I hear all critiques
They try to disguise
They’ve burned me to ashes
I’m no phoenix; I can’t rise

I’ve tried and failed and tried
To desecrate who I am
No matter what I change
It’s not good enough for Them

So I lay here in the blackness
And try and fail and try
I lay here in the ashes
I’m no phoenix; I can’t rise.

From the dust of chaos comes order,
For in that rubble, ideas are gleaned.
From the bright light of death comes the darkness of life,
From us comes everything in between.

Spring
We are all in spring,
our lives budding and blooming.
Shifting, changing, rearranging,
rushing, always moving.

Our future will be so different
than what we’ve always known.
Some may run from this strange new world,
some will embrace the unknown.

We are all in spring,
and summer will soon arrive.
The winds of change are blowing;
It’s the end of the beginning of our lives.

When I say
that you are my Sun,
I don’t mean that you are
Luminous,
Brilliant,
Gilded,
Beautiful,
Bold,
Warm,
Or even the center of my universe.
I simply mean that
I cannot look at you
Without hurting

War.
The cycle is always the same.
Two parties claim that the other is to blame
and soldiers without names, who think they’ll gain fame,
are slain.
The reasons differ, but peace
is sure to be one.
Tell me, please,
how you can say you fight for peace,
when humans are falling to their knees
without cease,
and dying?
And all I can do is write a poem.
All I can do is leave traces of graphite on wood pulp.
A poem will not change the facts.
or make up for empathy we lack,
or bring the dead back.
We must make friends out of foes
to slow the blood flow
before all that we know is
War.