I was once curiously asked:
"Why write poetry?
Does it pay the bills?"

I replied with a smile:
"It does far more than that -
it heals."

I fell for a poet
An expert with his words
By night a whisper,
By day unheard

I fell for a poet
A hazy, giggly dream
A little boy in a teenager's body
A life ripped at the seams

I fell for a poet
Who's writing love poems I'll never read
For someone else in his life,
Anyone but me.

I fell for a poet
So I'll wait, quiet as the sea
For this feeling to fade
Or for him to fall for me

He prayed for her pain so she’d crawl to his side,
While I prayed for her joy and love of all kinds.
He needed her broken to feel he was whole—
I wanted her shinning, with peace in her soul.

He loved her for him, for control, for his gain,
I loved her for her, through hardships and rain.
He smiled at her failure, a mask in disguise—
While I bled in silence, still wishing her skies.

For what kind of love would dance on her tears?
Rejoice in her downfall or feed of her fears?
I prefer to be lonely, with grief as my chain,
Than ever be cause of her fall or pain.

I grieve for my soul,
For the number of times I let people walk over it,
I grieve for my heart,
For letting people in ,
I grieve for myself,
For allowing all the garbage —
The hateful disposal,
To get inside of me,
I grieve...
Yes ,I do ,
With great pain