my hands
against
your flesh
your eyes
as blue
as robin eggs
that
our love
shall build
a nest

reading a book isn't about
reading good words carefully chosen
to create a magic display
of perfect scenes,
it's about feeling every moment and movement
that happens between covers
like that would happen in your present reality
and you're there,
ubiquitous,
deciding whether or not the action should continue.

It's become so hard to write beautiful poems
Because it seems that I only pour my sadness out when I write
And I have absolutely no reason for sadness
Therefore I just leave my pen on my desk,
I don't ever pick it up anymore ;
Because I now know joy and everything that goes with it
Now I only listen to swinging songs
And I just dance to them all night long,
Now I only watch decent films and not depressing ones,
Even my psychologist says I've overcome my depression
But now I can't write anymore..
I've forgotten what beauty sounds like
When I try to put my happiness down on paper
I can't even do it properly

I'm used to writing about death
And tears, lost love and broken hearts
Now all my sadness' gone
And I wish I could write about her smile
But my poem would be too joyful, and that is just not me.