I don’t know how to love someone like you.
You are a waltzing fire, crackling in the moon light as rowdy teenagers throw empty beer cans into your flames.
I am an unopened book, untouched pages that have yet to feel the yearning hands of someone longing to read my story.
You don’t know how to love someone like me.
I am a soft breeze, birthing flowers and gently sweeping down the colors of autumns prime.
You are a tornado, turning a beautiful sky into destruction, tearing down homes and pulling up the roots I worked so hard to plant.
Maybe we don’t belong together.
Maybe I’ll wake up and realize you burned my pages or tore my flowers.
Maybe you’ll fall asleep and realize that my paper will not fuel you forever or that my wind is too weak to carry your debris.
I don’t know how to love someone like you.
You don’t know how to love someone like me.
But I’m willing to try if you are.

You just have to keep telling yourself that you're a **** good person and you don't deserve any of what he put you through.
You stayed and you went back even when he didnt deserve it.
You were always there to pick him up when he couldn't do it himself.
You would've swam oceans for him.
But he'll never realize that until you're in someone elses arms and you're truly happy.
Only then will he truly realize what he had and how good you were to him.
And he'll hate that you're happy with someone else.
And you'll be blissful.
Truly in love.
And you'll have someone that would swim oceans for you.

The girl that loved  so hard,
She ended up to be  broken
Yet so loving still

Underlining the main point.
Striking words to a page.

It's troublesome when,
One has no rage.

The trouble with poetry is,
One with stanzas united.
Going in rhythm,
With the sound of a heart beat.

Beating down the rhythm,
Of a Skull's drum.

The trouble with poetry is,
One life corrupt,
In a demise.

When the sword strikes stone,
Igniting a fire.

One heart, One soul,
Encrypting each poem.
It's troublesome,
When one has no soul.

Nothing is happening...
I may have lost my ability
to form words.
Still nothing is happening.

My pen is empty.
My fingers tied in knots.
My tongue has wrung dry.

When will it all being anew...
I ask.
When nothing is happening,
with this heavy block crushing my hands
of any progress I might have brought into the light.

All because nothing is happening,
when you have The Writers Block.

All I have
Is
Everything
I have ever and will ever
Need.
Want not
For want is
As useful as plastic
For sealing in freshness of fruits
You were about to enjoy
Anyway.
Eat up,
Drink slow,
There is more to learn than know
And I
Am so grateful
To be a cell
In this
Whole.

to hide
but be seen more often
to give less of myself
but be caring and kind
to be grateful
but not place so much value in things
and to love
but feel less