Something I love.
Something I hate.
The white of a dove.
The fiery gate.
It can be about love,
Someone should've had.
It can be about lust
How it turned the good to bad.
When  I write.
I think to myself.
What am I compared to
Dust on the shelf.
A huge ugly clambering ogre
Or gentle giant looking over
Lines and lines of rhyming words.
A sing song tempo meant for birds.
In the end you will see
Writing does mean something to me.

What if mirrors had been replaced.
Would you criticize your body?
Would you hate your face?
Oh what a wonder,
If we couldn't see ourselves.
Only each other.
Would green eyes still envy all?
Would your defenses fall?
Would you still try
The way we all do.
To be better than the person
Standing next to you.

Birds singing
in the dark
—Rainy dawn.

Maybe I just want to be angry.
It's not the strangest thing
to want to be angry.
Even though I know somewhere
there is reason
I just don't want to see it.