Choose a poet,
Write a limerick.
Something like this:

There's a poet that goes by Quinfinn,
Whose writing can cause quite a din;
His verse is so subtle,
To save you the trouble,
He gives you the theme at the end.

Confession:
I wanted to fill your mouth with red roses
I wanted to string daisies and words through your golden hair
We were princesses growing up
Or at least, we pretended we were
The forest behind our house was the only palace we knew
It was the only place we could feel pretty.

Confession:
I never hated you like I said I did
When we got into our big fights
After you told everyone I drained my body of it's red wine
Into the bathtub by the means of a blade.
You may have been malicious in your intentions
Or you may have been a kid who had no idea what to do
I will always choose the latter.

Confession:
Overdose felt like that razor was dancing across my forearm
Once again.
They could have been the same
When the news cut through my eardrum
I didn't feel anything
I didn't cry at first
But I drove for hours
Occasionally screaming that this couldn't be real
A feeling only an experienced cutter would know
Like a familiar old friend.

Confession:
I peaked when
Mom told me not to look at you
As your body lie face up in that wooden bed
With ***** marks from the witch's needle
Covering your arm like black and blue paint.
She said you looked sick
She said you didn't look like yourself
Because you weren't.
But you were still the same kind of beautiful
You had always been
Even in your illness
Even in your addiction
Even in your silence.

i wish i had a heart of steel-
made as a source of shield;
wishing i could take care
for my own self defense.

stop breathing toxic
sunshine
into my lungs

there is too much
rain within
too much thunder
in my heartbeat
too much lightning
painting my charred bones
white and then,
black again in sick
repetitive monochrome misery
that leaves my rib cage shattered and my
heart
just a ****** mess
at my feet

red stains these
floorboards and the
grayscale in my eyes
seeps just enough color
to make me scream when
I can't sleep

can't you see
that flowers won't grow
where your fingers graze
my skin?

I am only a storm to
run from;
hide behind your clouds
of dreams and smiles
and -
*go away

I built the playhouse
To withstand
The seige of time.
Like Hadrian,
I dismayed the border people.
Starlight shone through
Crescent moons
Like the Ishtar Gate of Babylon.
Children shrieked and wailed
Against those walls
As nomads in northern China,
Or Philistines in Jeruselum.
But time is a formidable outsider,
And my small walls would tumble
To the blasts of tempus trumpets.
My hand runs lovingly across
Your names on those
Memorial Walls.