You cannot say you truly love her.

Not until you've seen the demons
she fought or still fighting to keep
her sanity, nor the monsters that
fuelled her nightmares.

Not until you've had an idea about
the storms she had to face bravely,
yet still managed to share her light
and warmth with you.

It's not always warm coffee and
blanket shared on cold mornings.

It's not always sunshine and butterflies.

It's not only her light that needs to be
cherished.

When you say you truly love her,
you gotta love her dark, too.

Poetry is for those who write it,
not for those who read it.

It’s chaos, sweetness
Some kind of confusion that
Unravels one’s mind

the night is made
to say things we never meant
we intoxicate our bodies
transform it on its true self

i think it is funny
how when the sun is up
we walk around praising our life
caring for what the world thinks
pretending to be what we are not
putting on masks
so thick that you could never
ever tell they are fakes

but then the sun goes down
and shine its true light
on the moon
poisoning our veins
luring our hearts
to beat faster
and sing the truth out loud
making us confess
what we would later deny with light

what is it about me
that others can't seem to keep?