Your pen dripped cruel and selfish lies,
deceitful love that trickled into inky stains
to mar the virgin sheets of white.
You spewed them out so easily,
your flowing scripts of clever guile
and as I fell for your conceit,
untruths despoiled the purest page.
Now every word that soothed my soul
is etched with pain
and every ink drop red with blood.
Some poets are also poems;
they paint a picture of themselves
through the stories their fingers will tell.
Some poets are simply just poets,
they write about anything, everything
and nothing, but they fail to see the poetry
I am a poet who can only write about her muse; I find it difficult to create anything without mentioning you.
I laid myself down
beneath the summer moon.
The breeze was warm,
and grass was cool.
I gazed at the trees
swaying in the breeze,
and listened to the stream
flowing free as could be.
I want to be the water
running wild as a dream.
I want to be the rain
dripping off of the leaves,
but what I want even more
is to be the blood in your veins,
to take over your heart,
and soak up all your pain.
I would make you forget
all the hate and disdain.
I would fill you with joy,
and kiss your soul everyday.
The sun becomes softer in these cold months,
and your soft gaze matches the dappled light
on your cheek, red and alive, your eyes moving
across me like the wind as I breathe.
My eyes are eclipsing and yours
are of the ocean; they are dancing in that
warm sunlight as the frost eats at our breath
and brings our anticipation to life
in swirling forces of nature.