My heart is one written constructed with perfected prose. Carefully crafted and yet recklessly released verbosity.

The soul within me grows out of poetry’s seed. Often slow to bloom, sometimes silent verses. A minimal show for maximum impact projected.

I do not need an emotional man. I do not demand an introspective or spiritual male counterpart.

But my soul blooms brightly near a heart who comprehends emotion. A soul who values introspection and spiritual flight. Who acknowledges the depths, the ever-changing abyss, from which these stirrings arise. Who, like a protective canopy, guards the frantic growth, the limbs bursting forth struggling through the soil’s density, then waning in their chrysalis, always awaiting with serenity, the beauty and calm of the full blossom destined to effloresce.