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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 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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