Words,
sharpened on the tongue,
hurled to wound,
to pierce,
to destroy.

Words,
dripping with venom,
flung to sting,
to burn,
to consume.

Words,
syllables weighted and heavy,
wielded to pummel,
to beat,
to crush.

Words,
spoken by you,
who gave me love,
hope,
happiness.

Words,
your weapon of choice,
better than hands,
than belts,
than feet.

Words,
wet with disgust,
ready to pour into,
swirl around,
drown me.

Your words.

I bent at the waist
to pluck a flower
and fell into
the sun-warmed grass.
There was laughter
in his kiss
as he tucked that flower
into my hair.
I was anointed
queen of the meadow
goddess of sunlight
and flowers
empress of summertime.
His fingers brushed by
electric against
my blood-rushed cheeks
and I closed my eyes
for just a moment
and forgot
that those same fingers
had left their mark
with screams
and bruises.
I gave it up
for a kiss
and that beautiful smile.
It was
worth it.
He
was worth
everything.

Out through the fields and the woods
  And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
  And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
  And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
  Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
  And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
  When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
  No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
  The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
  But the feel question ‘Whither?’

Ah, when to the heart of man
  Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
  To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
  Of a love or a season?

There are times when I feel like I am dying,
and I never wish it were true more than when I realize it isn't.

My imagination runs wild like wind through wheat,
catching on the trailing edges of her summer dress as she runs by,
and away.

My fingers just cannot hold on.

I can see through her dress when the sun hits it right,
and I can feel the waves her hip bones made
those times when we came together in that field,

but she is a mystery now,
no more familiar than the feeling of the bottom of the sea.

I close my eyes, dream of her, and fade into the soil.

I never stoop’d so low, as they
Which on an eye, cheeke, lip, can prey,
Seldom to them, which soare no higher
Than vertue or the minde to’admire,
For sense, and understanding may
Know, what gives fuell to their fire:
My love, though silly, is more brave,
For may I misse, when ere I crave,
If I know yet, what I would have.

If that be simply perfectest
Which can by no way be exprest
But Negatives, my love is so.
To All, which all love, I say no.
If any who deciphers best,
What we know not, our selves, can know,
Let him teach mee that nothing; This
As yet my ease, and comfort is,
Though I speed not, I cannot misse.