My ink rarely rhymes.  
And I write words
even myself
can’t understand.
Daily ink spills
and splatters
on my tangled sheets,
sometimes I’m ashamed of.
The empty, naked
mosaic of love letters,
you thought.
My canvas of colorful illusion,
dim and chaotic,
you said.
The words I write to you,
for you.
Words that always land
on your silent, unappreciative lips,
unseen by your darkly unsympathetic eyes.
A poem you wouldn’t want to read,
A poem you wouldn’t want to hear.
A garden you wouldn’t want to tend.
And now that the teardrops
have ceased,
the birds in the cages
have been freed,
the plants unwatered and flowers are left wilted,
the winds have begun to blur
the memories,
the ink has run dry,
and no more thoughts of you remain.
I have nothing more to say.
    I have nothing more to wish.
There is none to plead.
    My ink and my love for you
    have now rested in peace.

She was molded by life’s mischances,
combats, and hurts.
Shrapnels and shattered glass
are stuck in her hands.
Her toes are burned from walking
through agonizing fire.
The endless fights and struggles
made her dark and cold.
But she remembers
each savage war
she has won.
With her loyal heart,
her armor,
and her fortress,
her passionate soul.
She continues to face her battles
and uses her torment
to wear badges
of strength
and courage
adorned with golden fronds.
She knows when wars are over,
the flowers will still be
bright and beautiful.