good poem

think the light thinks we’re as important as we do?
sitting here, my heart feels like august, like a morning made of champagne bubbles, like birthday, like the first day of a new year after all the stumbling and the few hours of sleep
and i cant believe all this love exists in me, feels like an open wound, bleeds thick like we just tapped a maple tree and let all the insides out.
is that what really happened? i cant remember through all the 
dizzy-looking-up-at-the-stars and the
and the way your mouth is kind of like high beams and mine is like a whole sky full of moths. 
guess we’re more important than anything, holding our hearts in our open hands and turning the whole world gold because of it.

I hope that you will find yourself before anything else, that you will not run out of your house in the middle of the night just to search for the missing pieces of you in strangers. I hope that you will stumble upon a love you live to give away, the kind that flows endlessly, that lives forever. I hope you will be happy for a long, long time.
—  Lukas W. // My good wish to you

Bravery is more powerful than perfection
Is this something you sense?
Your tangled thoughts being silenced
Is worth not taking a chance?

Bravery is more difficult than perfection
Is this something you find?
Painting the entire canvas
Is harder than colouring between the lines

Bravery is more honest than perfection
Is this something you rejoice?
While the world demands perfection
Being brave frees your voice

Bravery is more creative than perfection
Is this something you know?
The fear of failure stilling your pen
Keeps your inner world from being shown

Bravery is more beautiful than perfection 
Is this something you see?
Facing the world as your flawed self
Is the most beautiful you can be

—  Bravery > Perfection

“If our two loves be one, or thou and I
Love so alike that none can slacken, none can die.”
–The Good-Morrow, John Donne

every mouth you’ve ever kissed
was just practice
all the bodies you’ve ever undressed
and ploughed in to
were preparing you for me.
i don’t mind tasting them in the
memory of your mouth
they were a long hall way
a door half open
a single suit case still on the conveyor belt
was it a long journey?
did it take you long to find me?
you’re here now,
welcome home.
—  Warsan Shire
The fact that a good poem will never wholly submit to explanation is not its deficiency but its very life. One lives every day what he cannot define. It is feeling that is first. What one cannot help but sense in good poetry is a sense of the whole language stirring toward richer possibilities than one could have foreseen.
—  John Ciardi, from How Does a Poem Mean? (Houghton Mifflin, 1960)