she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.

//

he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.
but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?

this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

(a.m.)

I am a player of words.
I will be the the one to grab you by the neck first
but I might show sympathy on you
kick you in the shins and call you a fool.

My pen can do wonders
crush kingdoms, **** children, point out your blunders.
It takes a movement of my hand to change it all
fulfill your dreams, defy science's laws
I can make your lover infertile
make you an illegitimate child
send you to the most brutal fight
or present you with the Nobel prize.
I can make you a part of a dirt poor family
I can make you live your life without a tragedy.
I can make you an old hunchback
who has seen failure
I can make you the knight
in his shiny armour
I can push you off the cliff from which you hanged
or give you a nice pair of fangs.

Oh yes, I am nefarious.
write words which are a mystery or hilarious.
I would rule this place if I had asked for it first,
I am a player of words.

I have painted your world in different colours
cheered for you when you got the medal of valour
I killed your favourite character? Go figure!
I can make you turn into someone else at full moon
I can torture the ones who were your muse
I can build a world of my own
Not taken down by any force
The fire in my veins cannot be extinguished
I will present you with people between whom you cannot distinguish
I can bathe in the tears of my readers
Don't underestimate words
through your spine they can send shivers.



They see me as danger
to trouble, I am no stranger
there is no extent to my freedom
I am half angel, half demon
I have had my mind drift away to places
I have made friends with the one with scarred faces
danced on waves,  sang in deserts
all of this can't be done in reverse
I have killed you using shells
I often write to vent.
I often **** the things which you clenched.
I hold onto your soul and the boredom you munched
isn't all of this fun?
I could be queen if i asked for it first
the world calls me an introvert
and
The player of words

We are looking for reasons to look at each other
Like the rain wasn't already enough to incite our souls
Like the oceans weren't vast enough to make us question
"What exactly are you trying to avoid?"
"What exactly are you running from?"
And our need to find exact representations of what we are trying to say
when the weight of the darkness is heavy and the pressure in the air
like the tension in our lungs isn't already enough
Because describing the ocean without considering
rapid currents and forces pulling us in the direction
that drives us away from one another
Walking in silence trying to avoid the clump
in our throats when the nothingness of all things is aching
Reaching out but not searching hard enough
not looking at the longing like it's the only thing holding us together
"What exactly do you want?"
"What exactly are you trying to fight?"
When you're close to what you want and you're separated
by blistering tornados that want to blow you into smithereens
Like you hadn't already tried running only to realize
you were running from yourself and your secrets
Thinking that maybe you weren't trying to convince yourself
of things that you're not even sure you understand
Because understanding means letting go of
the things you never once believed until now could be yours
"Where exactly will you go?"
"What exactly do you want to see?"
And the exact measurements the seamstress
tried to tell you about burn your eyes
The stinging in your hands and the burning
of trees isn't going to reduce the danger factor
in looking for cracks in fine China
STOP RUNNING.
STOP RUNNING.
"Do you have anywhere to go?"
"Do you have anyone to run to?"

(m.e.)