En-garde fellow poet
who stands with gold pen sword.
Raise thy weapon and duel with me
in bout with words.
My tool be sharp with potent prose.
sonneteer stand is ready to fight

Yes En-garde I say
for be know to slain one with a  mighty song.
And I am Known to gather crowds
who watch many a victory

Un-garde I echo with parry to cut thy thoughts.
With sabre pen sharp with ink red.
Perhaps than you shall bleed
as we will meet upon ground of page.

En--garde you who cast a shadow
of judgment with they eyes
For battle shall commence
on Fields a plenty
And I will win a sun for sure.

Let me begin to chip away,
Piece by piece,
The idealistic fantasy of
The White Knight.

It was never fair to you
Nor I
To expect saving
And almost.. perfection.

A story so often spoon fed to us all
From young ages.
Promised, almost.
So young our minds cling to this projection of what "should" be.

You men carry things
We women could never fathom
Until we open our hearts to see you,
Truly see you,
And graciously allow you
To also be human.

It feels like I'm swimming in the unlimited.
It feels like my mind is just floating around out there somewhere.
Enveloped in the warmth.
Finding bliss in the unknown.
Almost sinking to the deepest parts of the ocean floor
Yet it feels like it could stretch on forever.
As if there is no floor.
There is no end to the void.
I feel like I should feel lost but I know I am not lost.
I am always right where I'm meant to be.
I feel like I'm searching but only feeling through darkness.
Almost feeling nothing and everything together simultaneously.
Floating around in the womb
Of the universe,
Wondering,
Curious,
Waiting on my rebirth.