I could write about ignorance

and hate,

I could write about

poverty, war,

and family.

I could write about the faces

that they show in the news,

stories that

are too large

to pin down.

And I could write about the trees,

with their leaves hanging

by tiny stems

or the sunset

and whatever color

it decided to be today.

I could write about all these things

that are so important

to the world,

but darling,

all I really want to do

is write about you.

Tell me the ******* truth
you say,
but I'll tell you that

I am a writer.
what *I do is write.
By default,
half the things that I do speak aloud
are romanticized
exaggerated
or maybe entirely false.

I am a writer
my memory is not history
I am no historian,
I can promise you that.
My memory is poetry.
Poetry is beautiful,
cutting, shocking, striking,
and sometimes
history just
isn't.

I am a writer
I say,
and that is the ******* truth.

do you(dust)feelemptytinglingD
                                                     u
                                                        s

                                                 t

do you feel elegant quivering elatedU


                                            S



                                                                  T


in pale and in comely glued arrivers
sharp straight white.do you feel cool
touched (your shoulders nape sternum
) brushed gentler climbing rapidly
quivers AND u            s                                                  t


do you whorl 'pon my palm?as presses
through your body its kiss fastly andUST

do you know, between light and darkness,
FLESH?
                 do

         you

                   know

      lilting


                     fl

              utt

                        er

         a
         n
         d

                                         hush?


(you know.

                        as know i.


                                                         you)

I cried, but I didn't understand why, so I laid there for awhile in thought.
As I became one with darkness, I realized:
I feel inadequate.

I am smart.
You are smarter.
I am strong.
You are stronger.
I am stubborn.
You are stubborner.
(Not that I'd ever tell you to your face.
I've got to keep up appearances you know.)
I'm genuine.
But you are moreso.

So when I told you that I think I love you,
my feeling of inadequacy grew.
I don't want you to admit to feelings that are untrue,
but I wish you could decide if you love me too.

I can't tell you any of this.
You'll draw back inside yourself.
So I'll continue to hide it.

I hope I don't shrivel up and die.

It's the monster in your heart
The one that never gives in easy
It will follow you around till you finally
acknowledge it
It will haunt you, in your dreams and
your reality.
It'll make you draw back, intimidated and
terrified.

If you never look it in the face,
you'll never see what it means to fear
You might draw back-
one step, two steps, three
for you're terrified.
He's standing right in front of you,
his wild smile just for you,
the physical personification of your fear
And then you lean in, closer to his face,
growl at him to stay away.
Now it's his turn to draw back
As he throws his head back and laughs
in wild amusement and the same pride,
parents feel at the accomplishments of
their darling child.
He leaves you that day with a whispery
kiss on your forehead
but he's back the next to make you even
more scared.

One day, when you don't fight back
he will look into your eyes and see your fear
and will frown at the defeat in your eyes
He'll use the dirtiest of tricks to make you fight
He'd do anything to make you fight back
So if you crumple to the ground in defeat,
he'll make sure you watch as your worst enemy
receives all that you had been fighting for
right in-front of your very eyes.

His sense of humour is critical
State of mind, questionable
Love for you? Unforgettable

The more her canine teeth,
dip deeper, on his shoulder,
on crossing the threshold of pleasure,
the more he gets elated;
then, a doubt raises its head
and whispers,*"just being  plain dutiful,
or was it, like she felt, really beautiful?"

if you cut me open
you would hear music