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He's an Open Book

Poetry is turning out to be a very cathartic medium, I should do this more often.

Set the Mood

hes-an-open-book

With curious hands she turns my pages,

Exploring the plot conceived through ages.

Ages of innocence and those of sins,

Searching through both my losses and wins.


Table of contents nowhere to be found,

A garbled mess to which I've been bound.

But her scrutinizing eyes will take the time to find,

The light between the darkness in every line.


Horror-filled and delightful my tales,

Heard in the background of silent wails.

Yet she continues on digging deeper,

Into the tellings of love's yearning reaper.


Ripped from my book she tears each story,

That painted my plot with blood so gory.

She is the editor to my fickle past,

Fishing with lines of passion cast.


Reading my book like sailing my sea,

She immerses in every part of me.

Airs of sorrow and spray of sadness,

She draws me from unending madness.


As I have been her open book,

So did I bite upon her inviting hook.

I traversed her depths and treacherous ridges,

Where she had burned them I rebuilt her bridges.


Attached to our stories as if by stitches,

Our tales entwined bringing greater than riches.

Together we traded our tears and laughter,

Shared pages leading to happily ever after.

A Yearning

There is a physical love that I have, one that I play into as often as it arises and disappears as quickly as it comes; the body is fickle in this way. However, where I am yearning and where that yearning never ends is in the emotional love that is lacking in this world. People like to hoard it, to keep their emotions to themselves and keep them safe, and this is as boring as it is gut-wrenchingly sad to me.

Strive to be an open book, let others read your pages and explore your tales. Equally strive to immerse in the tales of others, and rewrite those bloody tales with love.

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