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Poem
i am still getting used to this writing thing
this poetry writing thing
the mystery of hiding my madness
concealing my mad love
oh i love him mad
forgive the poor grammar - madly 
yes, i love him madly
like i said i am still becoming familiar with this writing thing
this poetry writing thing
i am lost in translation on Mondays
then bouncing from cosmos to cosmos by Sundays
i am more comfortable in the unfamiliar 
somewhere over there feels like home to me
i feel more love from the strangers i see over there
strangers who also cling to similes, and to metaphors, and to antonyms, and to synonyms
we all are clinging for life, and for purpose, for hope
strangers who are vaults to the secrets of the subconscious
strangers who are daring enough to address the flaws of the human condition
strangers who are brave
strangers who i believe love me for me; who love me solely for my creativity
who love me for my dramatic storytelling; who love that i am drama Queen
but back to this writing thing that I am still trying to get used to
this poetry writing thing
my flows are nothing like a Shakespeare nor my biases like a Ayn Rand
but the love of my life reminds me of them
he reminds me of them 
beautiful deception
his smile feels like a song that I can taste - so pleasantly sweet 
a relentless radical
he claims he'll drain all of my conservatism out of me
is the love of my life a male-Ayn Rand or a female-Shakespeare
i am never sure 
but he provides something deeper than ordinary to me
before he came along my days were ordinary
still, i cannot love him more
in the physical sense
i just cannot for i have nothing else to give
but through freehand or calculated poetry writing
this love intensifies
strangling me
but i breathe easily
petrifying me
but i reach my hands out to him happily, freely
i am reaching out to him through the writing, through my poetry
which explains how we met in outer space
so yes, I guess we did meet somewhere out there in outer space
maybe a 10-dimensional love for all five senses - his and for mine
i am not sure
i am never sure actually
but back to this writing thing
this unforgiving poetry writing thing

he asked me for one line

"short poems.. i struggle with" i said to him embarrassed but unashamed. 

he asked me for one line that could make things easier

"what things?" i said to him embarrassed but unashamed.

he asked me for one line

"like morning doves, together we could be - even tonight" i said to him

then i woke up.
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