She is art.
Every design, curve and line is perfectly perfected with God's paint brush.
Every drop of color is perfectly mixed.
Adding spice and hue to her personality.
Bright and bold.
Dim and quite.
She is a work of art.

Some nights she will reminisce on the memories of you
And some nights she will wish she never met you.

You're not real
I'm not here
We both disappear

Depression is so brutal.
It is not a French poodle.
There is nothing cute about it.

I told you
But
You did not
Listen to that voice
That is me

a picture is a thousand words
while poetry is a million translations
of feelings said by one
to all

that* (pronoun)
\ˈthat, thət\

used by the misunderstanding to describe the depth of thought and/or emotion experienced by the reader upon reading poetry that has been ripped directly from the author's soul

I loved you
But you left me
You had other seeds to sow
You packed your bags
And said
“goodbye It's for the best, you know”

But you never
Actually managed
To leave the house and go
You're still buried
in the garden
Cos i killed you with a ***

30th April 2017