People say writing poems is meant to be about rhyme and rhythm,
But how do I do that if I can’t stay in time with my own life decisions?

I feel as though I need myself a muse,
I think I have it, my own, personal blues.

See, I can’t help feeling down from time to time.
Since when is loving someone a monumental crime?

Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,
I think you’ll always be my favourite thing.

there is a method to my madness
                                                  i admit
      it may seem
                                            a
                             w
                                           r

                                                         y

waterdrops
they fall off leaves
after a cold winters storm
the broken branches, a reminder of the harsh weather

teardrops
they fall off my cheeks
after a cold night alone
the broken pieces of my heart remind me i'm alive

blooddrops
they fall down her skin
after another soul shattered
the cuts, a reminder she's alone

teardrops
they stream down my cheeks
as the one i love, leaves again
another shattered soul, falls to the ground

waterdrops
dripping from leaves
on the day they got married
this broken soul flourishes again