I wondered if you should bleed out your soul to me.
Clean it and leave it dry until I come back from work.
To me you are a beautiful woman that your creator has created.
Not just a beautiful woman, but the person on the inside is beautiful as flowers come up.
I was a name researcher and it almost felt like pure gold when your name always had flowers pop up.

Pour your heart out to me once in a while.
There’s a present laying at your door.
I wish it was me inside the gift able to wake up again in your arms.
As you follow God outside in heaven I feel magical on the inside that I have to say one word for you.
My heart is booming for you to speak to me.
To hear your voice next to my bed, as I cuddle you tightly.
Voice is entirely blooming of flowers as I imagine you and your child.

You were meant to be in my life.
I couldn’t tell sometimes if you were the right individual.
One individual knocks and another one knocks twice.
One leaves you and the other sleeps with you.
Poetry is the power of love and life.
To see your vision through my eyes leaves me devastated as visions are different.

I saw one glimpse of one archenemy.
I immediately passed out in the car.
You took the car leaving the trail of my blood on your windshield.
I felt bad that you stole my body’s soul and turned into an object.
People aren’t as good as they say they are.
You have to look inside to find the good or what you are looking for is real.
Lies contained credit cards stolen, picture frames removed and rice thrown to keep me distracted.

I missed how the black ink flowed on my paper with each written word.
Each emotion and grave danger popping out into the sound of reality.
The rain drops on the page represented by me feels tragic as the words erase.
I am no longer left with a piece of overshadowing pain and grace.
The glory that used to run in my blood till’ the end of yesterday.

No longer a kid who used to ride on a bike, missed a lot of my childhood.
The gateway was locked, like a level in the fog.
The long roads of my life, broken, disheveled and disheartened from the year I learned.
I grew, woke, and became a bit angry as parts of me separated across the river.
The heart I had inside of me lost it’s connection to my mind.
The traffic lights echo and the streets become unknown, but I’m living in the foul equation of math.

A writing lesson about history and how it becomes our one to be by each memory and influence of society.
I grew to love these folks down the middle halls and the risks taken were extraordinary.
Take a lesson from history, humans apply it in our own life. That stands for individuality and authenticity.

Living in the being as the ink from my pen walks away on the sidewalk.
The paper just flies away and I’m singularly left with a desk to look at it.
Look at it and be grateful it was created, but I’d rather sit on the cold floor in the dusty wind.
Bewilderment followed the streams of artists, whirling in the biome of breeze.
I go wherever they follow in visions far from my recognition.
Recognizable from a distance, but one can imagine leaving a note on your desk.

Wind my paper back up like a toy.
Judge it for its worth, not for it being brutally honest.
It was shaken and twisted in the first winter.
The American sea felt icey cold, but better yet buttery at the knife cut.
The diary of my book holds a new medicine for my eruption that happens each day.
Carelessly, and certainly I looked up to you, like someone else did.
I saw you for who you are and cherished you, like a carriage with a kind person.
Sorry for such a sorrowful comparison. I’ll recognize you from the ground next time.

A kind woman holds a new meaning.
Cherishable and ambitious endurance of beings.