if this was a poem
it would be total ****
because it doesn't rhyme
and there's no rhythm
and there are no answers

Because after everything you did
All the fights
And all the insults
All the broken promises
And all the lies
All the short retorts
And all the K's
I still love you

I engraved your name upon my heart
To make it yours,
I caressed it, and gently took care of it
To make it my own.
I beat through life. With upheld face
To make mine yours,
I sheltered through storms and zyphers
To make it my haven.

I saw you then,
And realized;
Yours is mine,
And I'm
Yours.

At the Golden glorious gates of Heaven stand I,
In meek merit and weakness divine, unable to enter.
Looking in at the white and red, and ample boughs,
Trembling with fear: feverish with desire of thought.

Approach I the glimmering constant gates,
Wrought out of my being and fibres.
My weakness and strength, my thoughts and ignorances'
And moulded in my lacks, and my fire and awe
Rings out in defiance and mockery of myself
but it echoes my heralds and welcomes my approach.

Im sorry I ask of so much,
This heart of mine needs too much,
Hungry that i am,
My desire burns with every swallow,
I need more, more than you can ever give,
More than u will ever know.
My need for irrelevent things highlight the minutes of my day,
Every second without them a pain,
What to do?,
You are incapable of satisfying thirst of my indigent heart.
Yet, still, you try, you angelic creature , Yet you still try
Why, oh, why do you attempt of completing my requests,
When you know I can make this your lifes quest?,
Why do you try when you know of the end,
When you know a thankyou would not be said?,
I love you, yet still I burn you,
I scorch you with my tongue,
Yet still  your heart's melodic love is sung.
Thankyou Lord for blessing me with wonderful beings,
Who forgive the poisonous snake in my mouth,
Which lashes out again and again,
until a wish of mine is fullfilled.

Two girls there are : within the house
One sits; the other, without.
Daylong a duet of shade and light
Plays between these.

In her dark wainscoted room
The first works problems on
A mathematical machine.
Dry ticks mark time

As she calculates each sum.
At this barren enterprise
Rat-shrewd go her squint eyes,
Root-pale her meager frame.

Bronzed as earth, the second lies,
Hearing ticks blown gold
Like pollen on bright air. Lulled
Near a bed of poppies,

She sees how their red silk flare
Of petaled blood
Burns open to the sun's blade.
On that green alter

Freely become sun's bride, the latter
Grows quick with seed.
Grass-couched in her labor's pride,
She bears a king. Turned bitter

And sallow as any lemon,
The other, wry ****** to the last,
Goes graveward with flesh laid waste,
Worm-husbanded, yet no woman.