You love, is not my poetry that makes it to open mic. You are the crumpled piece of paper that supports my unbalanced balcony chair.
You are not my poetry that gets me applause. Honey, you are the hidden meaning that fills the gap between the sentences that lack grammar and dont rhyme.
You are not my poetry that goes up on my Facebook wall. You are the broken antique photo frame with a chipped corner that reflects my ugly broken soul.
You are not the poetry that rhymes with thyme. You are the sound of the rain water drops that seep from my cracked ceiling.
You are not my poetry that goes well with brandy and burnt candy. You are my bar of dark bitter chocolate that soothes me during my period days.
You sweetheart, are not my poetry that sweaters the burning soul. You are the early morning fog that covers my orange colored rusted sky.
You my darling, are not the poetry that fills my empty nights. You are the 1 am hot cuppa that puts my chaotic thoughts to sleep.
You are not the poetry that talks about the sun, the moon or the beauty around. You baby, are my poetry that heals the crack under my feet.
You sweetie is not the poetry that hangs in the store with pretty pastal laces beneath the shelf ‘pretty for petite’. You are the poetry sitting on my finger tips that journeys inside me through nights that are rough.
You my all, is not the poetry that flows like a bottle of champagne at at fancy restaurant. You are the bottled up poetry that I leave to float through the canals of my blood flow.