watch it rise to your nose,
feelings tossed in your sea,
do you have self-control,
as you come after me?
will you tear me apart,
am i flesh you can use?
damaged goods in her eyes,
i can handle abuse.
kept your teeth on my lips,
with your black opened eyes,
i will keep mine both shut,
while i feel my blood rise.

I still remember
third grade.
When poetry was made
of rhymes...
Oh, the good times.

We were taught the sun
was a happy thing
and we would sit on a swing
smiling at its wonder,
unable to wait for summer.

And I know while
the sun's wonder
does indeed bring summer,
it also gives way to thunder
and rain.

Now that I'm older
poems have grown colder
and I know sorrows
are not conveyed
in rhymes.

behind her bangs
she saw
in the field where she sat
was dusted
with violets and bright, ruby poppies
the sky was painted with gold and violet
hues of blue and pink.
behind the darkness of her eyes
she thought.
she opened them,
and saw that
ink had bled into the sky
deep purples
blacks and blues.