what is love, I questioned myself
if she was a flower in a garden
I would  write poems,
describe her in the most elegant ways
I would love her more than myself

I would manifest
about her eyes, voice-everything
I would draw,
and add colours to make her stand out
I would tell about her
to this world- filled with misery

I would  try to recreate her
so I’ll never be left alone

we don’t pluck it out
just to spend a day or two with it
instead we let it thrive
that is love
And to love is to leave

When I was small
I wrote a song.
It was as wild
As it was long.

I did not know
How to write words
And so I sang
With the morning birds.

Now I am grown,
I am depressed.
I write long things
Just to impress.

I do not sing,
I only sigh.
When I was small
I was alive.