What is love?

Flesh. Flesh. Flesh. Bodies of blurs

Blurs of bodies. She stares. He stares.

They stare.


Not one breath.



Is this love?


‚ÄčI find it hard to write, even when I am alone. Sometimes, I find it hard to write although I know what is written is between myself, the page and God. I enjoy it, it is a release, an art form, however writing is such an exposing activity. It is a stripping down of layers, leading to the eventual exposure of the soul. My soul is the most precious “thing” I own although, to call it a thing in itself doesn’t truly express it’s value. I think the whole concept and process of writing is beautiful but I didn’t sign up for all this, it’s scary. I didn’t ask my words to strip me bare for you to see. But, most of all for myself to see. It’s a journey.

Gluttonous Guest

I do not want to be a guest in your heart, but a permanent resident.

Don’t we all? In fact,

I request sole ownership.

If the price is my heart in return, then my love you are indebted to me.key


Your words

Like oxygen

Enhance my burning flame of


And desire for




I see a reflection of myself in that glass.
Broken, shattered, piece me back together.
Oh, so delicate is a new wine glass…


To the touch

But you knew that already.

One sip too many sir? Or mightier as a thousand pieces?


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