You know she’s sad when you see
that she’s fallen back into her poetry.

Twisted sheets, mind on stutter
Unable to sort through this midnight clutter
Put it away for tomorrow
But what to do with my gnawing sorrow?
I circle soft blue on color book pages
Hoping the repetition eventually assuages
The raw edged reality of lonely dark hours
Filling the void with Crayola flowers

i stand as close as humanly possible
to the fire for my a c h i n  g      b   o  n e   s
they weep
but no one will be warm enough
not for the lava you made creep down
my cheeks and they
course through my body like wildfire


and i, a decaying forest.
i try my best to be as useful to the soil as physically possible for dead matter.

I'm not a Poet
                   Just a wannabe.