The poems doesn't speak to you.
It sings, it whispers, it screams.

The poem isn't going anywhere.
It dances; glides or crawls.

The poem isn't written.
It is cried, bled or shivered onto

Paper. The poem doesn't care.
It's just there. Where it belongs.

It doesn't mind or like.
It loves, adores or despises from its

Soul. The poems isn't created.
It blesses the poet with its birth.

Oh, little blind girl
who I used to be,
tell me now
what is it that I see?

Oh, little blind girl
so little and so bright
why did you leave me
without a single fight?

Oh, little blind girl
why has it been so long,
since you've decided
to write another song?

Oh, little blind girl
what is it that I've done,
to make you hide
why did you run?

Oh, little blind girl
who can now see
where are you at
inside of me?

That girl has a beautiful soul
And if you are lucky enough to have her
You **** well better appreciate that about her
...she's my best friend.
Hurt her, and I impale you. :)

Repost if you are fiercely (and occasionally slightly terrifyingly) protective of your best friends
Please comment I love to read interpretations of my work!

Who would have known who would have guessed
That you'd say no and I'd say yes
When all we do is argue all the time

I bring with me my best of game
Which is kind of feeble and kind of lame
But it's the only game that I can find

If either shows that they are weak
The other jumps in with both feet
With claws extended looking for the ****

Would I do that...yes I would
Would you do that...if you could
Enjoying all along the cheap thrill

We come to this party all prepared
Hoping that the other is unaware
Of the dangers that lurk around the bend

You smile at me with the greatest ease
I smile back with sharpened teeth
Knowing where we're going and where we've been

Have you ever stopped to wonder why
We always fuss we always fight
Isn't it time we put this to an end

And since I know the way you are
You should be the one to start
Cause your the one that started it in the beginning

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.