Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,

You and I
have a story
behind closed doors,
sneaking at night,
stealing kisses,
secretly holding hands.

But you and I
both know
this story
shall never be told
not even to a single soul.