Don't approach a dog unknown to you
Holding out your hand, making eye contact
You may frighten him
Let him come to you

Don't write a poem uninspired
It won't work out
In good time
Let it come to you

Don't go out there seeking love
Like a child with a butterfly net
Live your life
Let it come to you

why a poet?
because a poet
hears the words
which sing the
purest harmonies
because a poet
paints their portraits
in pastels
of phrases
because a poet
dances their agonies
into leaps of faith
and pirouettes
of passion
because a poet
sees
the beauty
in the commonplace
and captures
the moment
in a snapshot
of ink and white
because a bloodless world
cuts itself
a thousand times

and the poet bleeds

Saying goodbye
To someone you love
Is like reading the final page
Of an amazing book.

As the last chapter ends
You begin to notice
Just how beautiful
And perfect
The plot always was.  

You appreciate the joy
And even the pain
As you read and thumb
Through every page.

Finally understanding
The moral of the story,
You realize you've reached
The end of this journey.

Although the last sentence  
Is the most difficult to read
Another great book awaits
Once you turn the final page.

Eventually you may stumble
Upon yet another great find.
Or maybe you'll return
To the book you left behind.

You may just discover
Once all is said and done
That this particular book  
Was your favorite story
All along.

a fresh, brand new candle is the best thing ever. it smells delightful. the first time it's burning is like heaven on earth, if heaven is real, that is. lighting that wick is the thrill of the moment. watching the fire dance is enticing as you sit and run your hand through it. after a few weeks the candle starts to die down. the smell fades and blends in with the room. you hardly even notice it's there now. the wick is burning low. only time will tell how long it is before the candle is burnt out. give it another day. one more glimmer of hope. in the late morning it simmers down to nothing and that dancing fire has disappeared. all that's left is the smoke. that smell, the smell of death by candle, is amazing. it's so beautiful yet daring. this is the best part. soon that smokey atmosphere is fading away just like that first scent of the candle. and it's long forgotten about. all that remains is the not-so-thrilling wick, black and lifeless.

dreaming is a beautiful gift we are given. some don't get to experience it as often as others do. we take for granted our dreams until we begin to have nightmares. but the things is nightmares are the only way we can appreciate our dreams. dreaming won't be enough forever. dreaming isn't reality. we wish to live in our dreams, so some of us do. some of us choose to dream forever. some of us never wake up. one day that will be us. we will be so engulfed in our dreams we won't need to wake up, but when that time comes our dreams will be reality. that's when I'll be sitting on that ledge cussing at the world. I'll be loathing in self pity wondering why it took all of these years for me to finally realize this is my destiny. this is how it was meant to be. you'll be off doing bigger and better things in the house we dreamed of together, but only one thing will be different. I won't be there. someone else will be there for you. someone better. someone who has the right words to say when you're getting bad. I never could come up with anything meaningful or anything that could help get you out. I am only a listener. and a person can only stay quiet before they break.

Writing in general is beautiful. It's an escape. If you can't say how you feel you can write about it. You see, I think I'm in love, but I can't be so sure. Being in love and loving a person are two different concepts. And it's so generic to be writing about love. It seems like that's all we do. But I can't write about how I might hate you because I don't, I can't, and never will. However, there's nothing saying you won't hate me after we've had our time together. To be honest, I'm terrified. I can't stand having the knowledge that I could break you. You're like a tea cup, so fragile and frail, yet you're so strongly bound together like a well read book. I don't fully understand you, but I'm okay with that because I don't understand myself either. We can be a contradiction together. Dead, but our hearts are still beating.

I'm not learning, I'm here. Subsiding from cultural norms, I'm here.
the purest thing we ever have is innocence. there's no way to describe it. it's just there. I'm just here. I used to carry the innocence with me everywhere I went, but that time has long since passed. once it's gone, it's gone forever. ****** into the black abyss we call our past. and it's what we continue to long for year after year, time and time again. because we were pure then. we were innocent. oblivious to all the negativity. oblivious to the depression that will soon consume us. taking over our whole existence. and I realize, now, that's where the nostalgia takes its toll on us. the fact that we didn't know what was coming. we didn't know our innocent smiles and dreams would be deprived of us. swept up and thrown out. or is it hiding under the rug as if it amounts to nothing but forgotten dirt left by lazy, careless children? was it that well dressed in disguise that we forgot about it, letting it fall right through our fingers? or is it still wandering around, lost and begging to be found?