"We don't write poetry because it is cute, we write poetry because
we are members of the human species: we are filled with passion."
- Robin Williams in "Dead Poets Society"

Come peek inside me, see the world through my eyes. Experience my pain and happiness;
feel my hatred and love. This is who I am; this is how I feel.

Love...
is there a grander feeling? To love, to be loved, to truly feel loved: it is heaven. A heaven that can quickly turn into hell. Hearts are easily broken, souls can easily be crushed under foot - the foot of your would - be - lover. Ahhh, but that is not real love. Real love pulls you away from the cliff, off the ground. It makes you soar high, above the clouds:
a fly
in the sky.
Just you and I...

What is this perfection called love?
A blood-red rose, water droplets sprinkled on the soft, fragile petals. Sharp, piercing thorns spread across the stem. Hands placed just right will never be harmed, but one finger just a little off... and the blood runs.
Love is . . . dangerous, but beautiful.

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