I traveled a long way to see a better day but all I found was loneliness and dismay I poured my heart out to those who wouldn't listen to what I had to say I came to Wyoming to brake horses and maybe steal a heart but since I ben in cody I haven't seen a sunrise yet all Ive had is misfortune and regret I was held up by gun piont on a shore of a river bank I tried to help a kid to learn but his anger made my heart sank  there was to much wild in him to tame so I left that ranch and hung  my head in shame I seen buffalo and the hot springs I seen the north fork and what the called weather brings but since I ben in cody I havent seen a sunrise yet  theres hard times I can't seem to kick and wounds I can't seem to lick I would pack up and leave if I had a chance it's not like the movies filled with gun smoke and romance I wish I never came and theres nobody to blame but since I ben in cody I haven't seen a sunrise yet

being a girl
is feeling more comfortable
leaving your purse
or coat
or phone
with someone when you need to use the bathroom
than you feel with leaving
your drink

being a girl
means being cat called
and having to accept it
it means only feeling comfortable
with your boyfriend
or dad
by your side

being a girl
is insecurity
in being anywhere
without protection
because we are prey

right or wrong
it's the truth
and I live it every day

You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.

no one startles a poet
when writing
because everyone knows
a pen is a
dangerous weapon
and when used correctly
can strike so deep
that even the poet
cannot undo its ink
as is it was tattoo'd
onto the fabric of existence
a sign of rebellion and pain
a battle wound for all to see
and to secretly judge
because we all know
when no ones around
is when the true colors
of a poem
come out.