poetry. i am not writing it.(make way for me please)it is my skin. dripping with light.

i want to be in love with youthe same wayi am in love with the moonwith the lightshiningout of its soul.

holding the eveningtremblingly close to mei weepinto the sun lettingthe burdenof hopelift off my chesti realizethis is what it meansto be free.

my dear, I have nothing to say.my heart burns like the evening sky.

we are all like poems. some of us rhyme. some don’t. some are Pulitzer prizessome are just scribblesand yet, we all possessa special kind of beautythat can either heal or cut to the boneone that can never quitebe fathomed, nor forgotten.