She lives for the mornings
when all is beginnings
She lives for the evenings
when all is endings

She slogs through her
days
dazed
and
numb
no words rhyme
no lover comes,
her morning songs are sung
in baptismal
daily showers,
her dreams are
strewn in patterns
on curtains
in warm night winds blowing,
she sings again when the
nightbirds
sing.

Her mornings are
hopeful
Her nights are
resolved
Her games are
played at noon.

If she looks you straight in the
eyes
you'll know too soon,
She knows everything about you.

Her words will
come when they are ready,
Her beginnings are short
Her endings are long
like the night

Lady of the morning
Lady of the night
I will be beside you
when you finally decide
to take flight.

Light and darkness
while in her day
she pretends
as
she moves along
in
her own way.

Clouds grey telling me the future and the past.me wondering how long this future can last.
               keeping in mind that                
It all comes back around, something similar to like a merry-go-round. with the price of different people different acts including different facts... It's either better or beyond worse, sad to say but theirs some life who can't overcome the curse ££¥

Some are fortunate hitting the lotto, others are caught trying to steal an auto. I don't know but it all seems a little crazy causing me to sit back and roll up a stick that's hazy *.

midnight skies never tell lies, the moon is my light at the end of the tunnel until my demise; never questioning why my eyes are drawn to this dark sunrise...

When you say I <3 you I wonder if it's spelled  L O V E or L U V in your mind.

We are writers and poets who know how to express
We can define our feelings a lot more or a lot less
Why were we cursed with the ability to feel?
The feelings of life that are so painfully real...

We can make music by writing what we desire
Turning simple paper into a passionate fire
We can sway hearts by symbolizing love and creation
Or break another's by turning words into death and temptation

We are the cursed race of scholars who turn words into weapons
We can draw blood with a phrase in a matter of seconds
We are dedicated authors with emotions so heavy
That one word from us that is read or heard can be deadly

Words are our weapons, our friends and our foes
Even a writer or poet has demons that only we know
Each line is a battle and each piece is a war
We are writers and poets and we will write forevermore