So he said, What's the problem baby?

I don't know, well maybe I'm in love.

So I said, "I'm a snowball running"
Running down into the spring
That's coming all this love melting under
Blue skies belting out sunlight,
shimmering love.

and how can I stand here with you and not be moved by you?

I'm about to say something I've said many times before.
Everyone I talk to says you’re trouble. But none of them have given me a good enough reason to believe it’s true. I’m getting that feeling. That feeling you get as the ride is rolling up, up, up. Anticipation. Excitement. But also fear. The ride is always too short. So you almost don’t want it to start. But of course you would die if it never did. I thought I knew what love was, but now it scares me entirely. I’ve been exposed so utterly ignorant.

Hey, Tori. :)

Is it possible to be that adorable?

What is Poetry?

Words are like peanut butter; without milk they’re too sticky. Poetry is like milk. When your lips are cracking and your mouth is so dry it feels like cotton, that’s poetry. Even though you get a milky coating all in your mouth, it gives you something to think about, something to remember after the actual experience. Leaving you refreshed and nostalgic. Poetry is a whispered pleading to someone who’ll listen, with the hope they won’t fully understand what you’re trying to express. It’s like a fragment of the writer’s soul is in a floating water lily, just out of reach, daring you to lean over and risk falling in the water. Poetry is the soaked feeling of your formal gown against you as you pull up on to the muddy shore with the water lily dangling off of heel of your shoe. Poetry is when words aren’t enough to explain how you feel, but you allow them to try. Poetry is when all things constraining become the tools necessary to rise above.

It's been my experience that

turning in a poetry portfolio is like wrapping your soul in saran wrap and putting it in the microwave for a few seconds and then gingerly handing it to someone you see three times a week with a misshapen bow on top, trusting that they'll take care.

I am his stone.

If his mashed potatoes taste better at my table then maybe he'll stay.

Yeah, you love his voice. How could you not? This whole circle of girls should know that I hear that beautiful voice every other day.
Sometimes, right next to me.
Every once in a while, arm-in-arm down halls and auditoriums. And you know what?
It never gets old.
In fact, it gets better every time. His voice could sculpt the roughest stone. After February 12th, he's all yours. Until then, I hope you can let me enjoy him in peace.

Everyone I talk to says he's trouble.
I guess I like trouble.

He put three exclamation marks with three hearts dotting each one.
That has got to mean something.
What guy unconsciously draws hearts?

Just sayin.

I am
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p
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