My poems are not me
My poems are not how I feel
My poems are just a simple constellation of words that my brain created, and my fingers wrote down for the reading pleasure of others
I'm fine

Is this a celebration,
Or eternal death?
Is this a good thing,
Or an internal war?
Writing so much more,
The best filtered out.
But the poems never shown,
Maybe the best of all.
If poems are sometimes,
Actually true feelings
They will not be seen,
Because we cannot be honest

Blank yellow pages
Empty writing lines
Yet filled with thoughts
A poet at it's finest
A flower, Harnessed by the wind
Inspirational nothing
Words don't rhyme
Everything goes on, except time
My feelings, never fully good
And you'll never see through the eye of a true poet

If all the good girls go to hell,
...
I'm the sweetest of them all.
...
Because I'm already there

You've already been in there for way too long.

Hello there.
Same sentence,
Different voice.
But I want to hear yours.
I dreamed about you last night.
Not really a surprise.
Just desire.
What?