she was as the smell of smoke,
clinging to my fingertips.
a linger of reckless abandon.
she was always the first ****,
burning my throat as i inhale.
fingertips, trailing constellations,
sweat glistening as the smoke coils.

i need fresh air.
but my lungs are black,
and i cannot breathe unaided.

My own muse
The words drain from my mouth
Can’t describe you
Can’t ever encapsulate you
My own muse
My words drip to the floor
Can’t satiate you
Can’t seem to overcome
My own muse
The words flowing to the cracks
Can’t slip you
Can’t ever break through the floor
My own muse
My words drying up
Can’t win you
Can’t ever seem to wash the mold

I am a poet,
or I like to call myself one.
My heartaches and heartbreaks give life to empty pages;
I rarely compose from glorious days.
I’m inspired by the world, by people around me
but mostly by my pain.
I consider myself an introvert
for you will rarely hear me speak,
but on the other hand, I have much to say
just not with my lips
but with a pen.
I hide behind ink and paper
ready to write my feelings away.

I am the poetry that I write.