Her soul's poetry
Written  in deep dark ink,
Gushing through her veins
Etched across her bones
A tale untold

The world rebounds on touching her surface
Nothing ever leaves a mark
Or atleast
That is what she makes believe

Breathing life ,
She walks into the crowded room
Hidden behind her jokes and laughter.
Comedy weaving up the tragedy .
Humour , the only link to her sanity.
She breathes
Broken,  unnoticed.


The world brushes past her touch
Blind.
Oblivoius to the struggle.
Her mind, toxic to her soul
Her skin, her veil.

Yet, her pillows talk of red swollen eyes
And endless nights
Gazing at the moon
Half hidden beneath the clouds
Reflecting light
To cloak the darkness seeping within .

She draws her blinders shut
While her guitar weeps her wounds
The cadence of misery
Into the world of rhythm, she slips.

When shall the masquerade end ?

She walks away
Into the fog
On her own

Brick after brick
A fortress she built
And locked within her own incarceration,
Short haired rapunzul
Afraid to let the knight reach within .
vows of saviours, never heed.

Her facade, flawless
Yet not deceiving those little eyes
Searching for the truth beneath the illusion.
Decrypting the inscrutable dissimulation.

To those pair of eyes,
Slowly fading into oblivion
Lost within it's own ceaseless blue
Seeking for the line between the black and grey.
Her voice , liberating .
Finding its way within the chaos,
Resuscitating.
Giving life to a long forgotten voice
which whispers,
"Take off the masque, You're beautiful. "

This is not my poem
Sure I sat here and wrote it down,
but its not my poem.
Yes, yes I took the time to memorise it so I could see my words reflected in the expressions on your face as I read aloud...
but its not my poem.

This is your poem
You wrote this
You wrote this with your smile
the curve of your lips wrote this
the sparkle in your eyes punctuated every line and measured every pause, perfectly.
Your lips formed every word, sounded every syllable, created the melody that echos in my head as I write YOUR poem.

The rise and fall of your chest first catches my breath, then takes it away completely. Sensibilities and caution tumble down your back like rain in a warm summer shower that falls from a star filled sky, the heavens have opened. My heavens have opened. Caution is now a distant memory, like something once heard but long forgotten, something you knew you once knew but know you no longer have to remember so while there is at least an awareness of it, its passing will not be mourned.

And there, pooled in the small of your back, nestled just above the curve of your buttocks, lies hope.

The hope that the beauty I see in you, in us, in everything since we met isn't a mirage, isnt a projection of some one sided fantasy but that its real. That its as real for you as it for me and that I'm not alone. That I'm not alone in the way I feel and the way I think and the way........ the way.....the way I love. Its hope that knowing how I feel, how much I'm in love, in love with you, the hope that hearing me say out loud the very thing that I've had to fight telling you on a daily basis hasn't scared the **** out of you the way finally admitting it to you has me.
But this isn't my poem.
This is your poem.
You wrote it
and its my gift to you.