Sunday.
Alone.
I write,
On my own.
May I?
I may.
Do things I didn't,
Yesterday.

I only write about love and sadness.
Is that all I know?
Is it sane, or madness?

I set out on a simple task.
Looked at the sun and started to ask.
"Can I change the world dear sun,
like you so often do?
Can I change the world I asked,
I want to shine like you."
The sun could see
She stared at me
And threw my question back.
"Can you change the world you said?
Is that what you asked?
My child you shine as bright as me
And with that mind, you have."

Our fling.
Our thing.
Why did it die?
How could you?
No.
How could I?

I promised myself.
I won't cry.
I can't anyways.
I don't know why.

I could never commit.
You know.
You won't let me forget.

Suddenly,
You're with her.
In an instant,
Emotions stir.

I want you back.
I see the mark she gave you,
On your neck.

In the end,
It was my own doing.
Still,
My disgust for her keeps brewing.

Red.
The color of love,
it's said.
Red.
On the head,
Of an Irish thorough-bred.
Red.
Sinking ships,
Painted brightly on young girls' lips.
Red,
I'm led,
Where leaves in your color,
Scatter a creek bed.
Red.
Can't I wear you when I'm wed?
You say much more than the white gown,
I dread.
Red.
The petals on my bed.
The passion.
The love.
The words unsaid.

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.

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.