There is no poetry without want. Desperate want.

A poet is simply an artist whose medium is human emotions.  A poet chisels away at our own sensibilities, shaping our vision while molding our hearts.  A poet wraps words around our own feelings and presents them as fresh gifts to humanity.

I write fairy tales to live those moments I know will never be mine in reality.

The moon is my fear.The sun is my heart afire.The stars, my love songs.

I watched as he ignored the worldand focused on his hands.He creased a simple paper planeand dreamt of other lands.I watched him reach to throw that planeinto the open sky.A passing breeze upheld its wingsand made the paper fly.I watched a pleasant smile controlhis lips throughout the flight,until the little paper planehad floated out of sight.I hoped to see him chase the planeinto the light of day.Instead, he creased another oneand threw it too away.

I wish I were a tree.Tall. Strong. Abiding.Rooted in the spot I stand, impervious to lures that drag the transient here and there. Possessing neither a negligent ear nor a traitorous tongue that would only soak in and breath out rabid gossip. Able to endure fickle shifts in the wind and not bend. Lazing under the fierce sun, weariless, suffering no sweat or burn.Alive, sipping water, quietly providing.How I wish I were a tree.

I am falling in love with you,but I can’t say a word.You don’t care for love. It has bruised you, broken you, burned you. You call it a curse. Yet, I fear I am captive of this enemy, love. You warn of its destructive power. Oh, but it warms me like none other! It engulfs me in caressing flames, and foolishly I crave more. I can’t bear to suffer the cold, so I let you feed the fire unwittingly.I am falling in love with you.I am in love with you,and it’s getting worse.