The pen he uses to write his poetry is dipped in his bloodstream.

Made from the words of hidden thoughts that have created him.

Complex, yes, but disastrous.

His words destroy me,

but I have never been afraid of a bullet emerging from a gun.

His words create a world that I wish he would offer me the key to.

A world that is him, and he I long to explore.

A mess he is and a long-distance admirer I am.

Hidden in his thoughts, please do not enter.

His thoughts he lets flow into an ocean of words creating a shore of poetry.

He lets me read his poems.

He doesn't see that it is him I am reading.

Intense, yes, but passionate and vulnerable.

He hides what makes him behind the world of rhymes he has created.

Rhymes that he sometimes allows me to hear.

Rhymes that compel me every times.

He writes about her.

A beauty he longs for but will never long enough to reach.

He is a midnight wave crashing on young lover's feet.

She is daylight calm pulling them in.

Oh, how he longs for her to pull him in.

A train wreck he is.

A passenger I wish to be.

A hopeless traveler exploring the past that created the complex man whose words I admire.

Whose mind challenges me.

But it is a challenge that he would never bet.

I am a passenger who will never be given a ticket to the man hidden behind the blood inked pen.

I don't know who she is.

The star of all of his poems.

But I am the hopeless girl wishing he would hope for.

She is the girl that he will never allow himself to grasp

and who he will never allow to grasp him.

She is the girl that he will always protect from himself.

I have always wanted someone to write poetry about me,

but God, please don't let it be his.