If I, your humble poet,
could simplify my star
my muse
my flower's beauty into words
then you, dear reader,
would have paragraphs upon paragraphs to read
for, if it was possible,
I would take the time, detailing
The color, length of her golden-bronze hair,
Soft threads spun from only the finest material.
I would speak of the depth and clarity
of her eyes,
crystalline clear as sapphire.
I would tell of her smooth, milky skin,
dotted lightly and delicately with the most perfect freckles.
Her nose, upturned ever so slightly,
to give her a high-society look.
The crinkles around her eyes
when she lends me a genuine smile.
The lines on her palms
finally leading me home.
But since it all is impossible,
my words barely qualifying as the tip of the iceberg,
I will simply sit
And admire
my flower.
My muse.
My Star.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 10:35 AM UTC
He doesn't want me
He wants her
Needs her
Aches for her
But she doesn't want him
It tears him apart
Hurts him so much
I hate her
but she's my best friend
enemy
There's no difference
She's me
But cooler
Prettier
Smarter
Edgier
She is everything I am
And more
So much more
But I love him
And she doesn't
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 6:47 PM UTC