My whole self offered up.
Raw.
Like a sacrifice on an ancient stone altar.
The oldest and most pure ritual in the world,
of one human soul putting itself completely in the hands of another.
Surrender.
You take me as I am.
As I was.
As I will be.
You have made me yours and I will stop at nothing to bring you peace, happiness, contentment...
anything you ever desire.
This is my purpose.
The answer to all of my whys.
The quiet place that was always...
Home.

You are both the candle

burning in the back of my mind

gently illuminating my every thought

your soft glow always guiding me home

and the roaring bonfire

whose heat and light

are a beacon for miles around

drawing me irrevocably to you

your pulse and energy

burn with a primal force

that makes my blood sing

and flames me to life

My mind is a sea
of what ifs
and never agains
I want to scream
and scream
and scream
But I am afraid
that if I start...
... let it out...
I will never stop

When you write, your emotions start to stab you
Then you bleed with words unveiled by the beauty of your pain
You sweat with beads of warm memories hanging from your past
That slowly trickle down your neck choking you until your eyes water with the love that has long been washed away
When you write, you become vulnerable, exposed as you strip down your mind
But there's freedom in writing, a sense of joy that somehow, somewhere, a message is getting across,
To break a heart, rebuild a soul or tear down walls.
When you write, you bleed but you're still alive.

Lately
I don’t feel close
to poetry.

It feels elusive.
Unfamiliar.
Once it spoke to me.
But now it’s mute.

It sits back
and doesn’t look
at me.

If I call out
it doesn’t hear.

Lately poetry is
like that demon
I used to want
to reappear.