the most frustrating thing
when it comes to a writer
is when everything
every word, every letter,
isn't enough to give justice to
the captivating picture of you
in the afternoon:

soaked in sweat,
grinning foolishly,
striking up a conversation
about coffee,
and how unhealthy it is
for me to drink
three cups straight,
to stay awake,

yet the bittersweet taste
stains my lips.

it spills down my throat,
covers my lungs,
and drowns them
with the addicting aroma
of coffee beans
and lazy dreams,
until i cannot seem
to breathe,

and the only thing
i can ever do
is to spill ink
for you.

What is love?

Is love the blue sky 
on a summer morning?

Is love the cool rain 
on a hot day?

Is love the fresh white snow
in December?

or is it the color full leaves 
that fall every fall?

no my dear,
love is none of those things.

love is swimming
in the most beautiful spring,
but then drowning
in the deepest sea.

love is flying high
in the whitest of clouds,
But then being struck down
by the loudest lightning.

​​​​​Love is a red rose
That ****** your finger
As soon as you touch it.

Love is not something pretty
That you see everyday.
Love is something rare 
That comes every once in awhile.

It is something that
Makes you feel alive.
But as soon as you
get comfortable with it
It breaks you down,
It kills you, and it leaves you.

Then you get comfortable
living without it
Until it comes again.

I've always been a bird,
Trapped in my little cage.
It's dark and cramped in here,
It feels as though I'm suffocating

I watch the free birds from
Behind my metal bars.

I dream of the day my capturers
Set me free.
The day I may spread my wings.
The day I may fly with the wild ones.

I have the power to break out,
But I'm afraid of the consequences.
All my life I've been told how to live.
To sit and be a nice bird.

I'm getting restless.
I'm getting peckish.

I want to break out,
I have the power.
But I'm so afraid that
My wings won't work anymore,
From the lack of experience.

I'm so afraid that the wild birds
Won't see me as their own.
I don't know how to fit in.
This, my capturers have not taught,
Only how to sit and be a nice bird.
Do what I'm told, what is expected of me.

Well I'm getting peckish.

I want to fly.

Our love was beautiful,

innocent and sweet. 

Like flower buds on a tree, seeing the sun for the first time.   

It grew into fresh fruit, refreshing everyone who encountered it.

Then autum came and our fruit dropped to the ground, taking the leaves with it. 

Although it was a sign of death, I still found it beautiful.

We were breath taking.

Our love flowed like rivers and streams hidden deep in the forest. 

Then the cold came, and she came. 

We lost our spark. You spent more time with her, and allowed her to burrow her way into our tree.

Slowly, she took our nutrition and ripped the roots out from under us.  

She froze the remains of us and eventually we died.

Then you grew a new tree with her, using our dead fruit and leaves as nutrients.

Now a new frost has spread and this new winter has killed your tree with her.

This cycle will remain until you have learned how to shelter your tree from the cold. 

But the saddest part is that our tree was not grown from the cold that killed the leaves in which your trees now grow.

Our love was sprouted from the sun, it was fresh and new, and innocent.