Fell heal over heads
          in love with a poet,
  he's mostly a rhyme schemer
       likes Poe and his dark Raven,
  in actuality,  I'd fancy him more if
    he were like Pablo Neruda, but I digress
I'm much accurately fashioned after Emily Dickinson
        chasing heaven's June bugs toing and froing,
we'd meet at a perfectly superfluous coffee shop
    he'll be murmuring elegiac pentameter
I'm simply looking to devour precious words,
    we'd argue about abstract destinations,  
            straight forward persuasions and
               premonitions of wayward ink allusions,
some days I want to claw mine own eyes out
               amid all that nonsensical alliteration
  others, I want to rip out embellishments
                   of his black heart's magnification,
he mutters tumult under his breath,
     states he's abundantly sickly tired of all my
         fanatical froufroutant  flourished fantasies,
albeit, we're mild mannered artistes
         of overstatement and simplification
               thus, we continue laying it on thickly
I, with my hyperbolic cuppa tea and honey,
       he's all brass tacks, no nonsense black coffee
ultimately, we reservedly seek gratification,
      envisioning who functionally makes it first
to a finished line of manifestations's publication,
           in eternity's poetic intentions and beyond

I’ll stain solar systems on your heart                                                            ­                            
So any boy who loves you has to conquer the galaxies           
Before he can say “that girls mine”

I’ll paint forests in  your iris                         
So any boy who loves you has to adventure into depths unknown Before he can say “I got lost in her eyes”

I’ll draw the sun on your lungs                                                   
and the sky on your back                                                                  ­   
to teach you that your body is a habitat                                           
not a hotel or an                                          
ecosystem of forgotten love

I’ll write novels on your thighs                                                      ­                  So any boy who loves you has to read between the lines                  Before he can say “I got between those legs”

I’ll sketch the stars on your feet                                                         
  So any boy who loves you can get lost in the milky way                  Before he can say “we go everywhere together”

I’ll sculpt the gods on your knees                                               
and clouds on your fingers
to remind you                                              
you can, you will                                                   
conquer great things

When my sister played Clair de Lune
I’d go into her room and sit on the floor
with my ear to the side of the piano
so close that the sound would fill my mind
with the image of the long, coiled strings
vibrating, glowing golden in the darkened box.

I could hear my sister’s feet dampening
and undampening the pedals, muting the
strings, then letting them ring, resonating,
one note overlaying another, could hear
the creak of her piano stool and smell the
smell of wood dust, like old sheet music,
and my ear would pulse, almost hurting
from the sound of the hammers striking steel.

And I would begin to imagine things,
different things each time:
my aunt in a blue flowered house dress
standing in her kitchen holding a jar
of homemade pickles, her thin white hair
always in tight pin curls.

Or I’d be alone, in a long, softly lit hallway,
the walls covered with wainscotting and
lavender striped wall paper yellowing
near the ceiling. At the far end of the hallway,
a solarium, and beyond that a balcony
glimmering in sunlight.

Or I’d be in a field with small, white flowers
bowing with the weeds rhythmically
and sensing that I was
loved by someone.

And it would be that my sister’s
fingers were pounding deep into
my chest, and always, always
by the end of the piece
I’d ask her to play it one more time.

This house is as old as dust.
It creaks and sighs with ever once of pressure.
My room
Is dark and smells ever so slightly of someone who is not me.
The young girl who waited for snow days, the boy: his
Midnight eyes and, broken memories, intact.
(His heart and his head in a field somewhere)
She holds a place here, with the dust and the creaking floors.
There are moments held in captivity within these walls.
(Suspended in disbelief, for they cannot imagine who has replaced them.)
My heart still rests on the bed, my eyes weary.
A day of traveling behind me, a lifetime of moments ahead.
(the blunt assumption there is more to life than this.)
She is not me, the crossed legged one.
Computer screen, light pollution beside the old lamp,
(cascading the room with warm and comforting shadows)
What once frightened me, now I greet like an old friend.
I am here for a moment, as is the light.
Ignited with a spark and snuffed again by a whim,
Of something I cannot control.
This house is as old as dust, and I will return to it
Time and again, although it will never truly
Be mine
(ever again.)

You asked me once to write about you.
What would I write, though?
Words cannot capture your devilish grin
or the way your red hair shines.
Words can't tell of how you make me draw a breath
when you press your lips to mine.
Words do not begin to tell the story your eyes can with a simple glance.
Stories of regret and pain.
Stories that kept you from ever being the same.
I cannot find any words that would show the world
just how much you mean to me.
You are the moon and all the stars.
You light up my nights.
You are the sun, brightening my days.
You are every dream I have ever had
and every wish I have desperately whispered at 11:11.
You are more than any messy poem could ever convey.
Here is your poem, my darling.
I'm sorry it's not better, but the only words that even begin to explain how I feel are I love you.
I'm not sure how it happened, but I do.

Poetry is just taking

Fear
Pain
And anger
And forcing it into words

Poetry is simply taking

Sadness
Depression
And anxiety
And giving it rhythm

Poetry is merely taking

Worry
Love
And broken hearts
And making it a pattern

Poetry is taking these things
And writing it in blood
Pouring your heart out
And giving them life