see - cah - moh - re
you used to say that
the wrong ones
dont matter to you, baby-
what if im wrong?
what if i'm not the right one
for you

see - cah - moh - re
you used to say that
the wrong ones
don't matter to you, darling-
but what if you are?
and you're not the right one
for me?

sturdy, sturdy
as the sycamore tree
is my love for you,
my darling thee

but as the roots, spreading
continuously till bedrock-

there is end to us,
there is end to love.

see - cah - moh - re
you say that
the right ones dont matter to you now
for they have no stories
to tell
no regrets to burn

and like the sycamore tree
that you've always pronounce wrong;
till there is growth in stagnation.

I know you're right for me.

I've just created my first white bread loaves.
I've mixed every color, worn every shade.
I have pranced in foot-long heels,
Trying hard to gain a grasp...
But in mixing my yeast
Folding in my flour
letting my baby rise
and
Baking my loaves just right
I've never felt more confident in myself.
And that's a gift, eh?

never a dancer,
nor had I intended,
but you crafted me
from board-stiff limbs
and
with a lick and promise
I danced.

from the strings dangling down
from a heart-sporting sleeve,
a marionette I was
you tugged to the rhythms
you pulled through the silence
and against my intentions
I danced.

The ascension and depletion of self-worth
When you lose the ability to write
Relatable poetry