America My writing is from the heart. I spend little time planning my poems. A thought pops into my head and I give it freedom.
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Purple and blue and black fade to yellow and green. Sickly marks marring pale as moonlight skin. There are so many bruises, I fear that even a golden soul has been blackened beyond healing.
I guess you didn't understand that when you hit me, it left marks that weren't just skin deep.
When there are storms, and the rains beats relentless against the cool glass panes, and the rumbles of thunder shake the walls i've built; I curl up in bed with a favorite book and a steaming, fragrant cup of tea and think, perhaps, *It is almost a good life.
I'm trying so hard to keep my head above water. Everything is closing in and the darkness is settling. The very process of drowning makes it harder and harder not to drown. He wrapped his hand around my ankle and told me that he would never go down alone.
Who decides what we deserve? Did he deserve her? Did she deserve you? Did I deserve that? What do I deserve? because I don't think anyone deserves to feel afraid every day. It isn't fair that one person gets to intimidate and hurt us.
The way you say my name... You make a single syllable sound as if it means everything. Three letters become three words, my name echoes your feelings. I love the way my name tastes when you whisper it into the space between our lips.
I don't know the first thing about love. I'm not one who should be writing love poems.