Her veins flowed with liquid poetry. I stole the words from her mouth with my kisses.

Poets write the secret history of hearts.

I'll be your blanket, baby. Wrap yourself up in me. Let me give you shelter, in the winter of this world.

The poetry I love besthas words that glimmerlike moon goldon dark waters,and a hidden undertowwhich pulls me intoits delicate sadness.

Even when your heart is blue, I'll safely hold it. I really don't mind these indigo-stained hands.

She is a living, breathing work of art.As audacious as Dali's mustache,mysterious like a Mona Lisa smile.As sensual as O'Keeffe's painted petals,glorious, like a Van Gogh starry night.

UnsightlyIf I strip my heart naked, you'll see all the unsightly scars, I'm afraid.