Open the door into an avenue
Where words are formed
And fall onto the page
Black is the ink
That scars the writing
Facile is the thought
That is sent to offer
Stalled  is the sentence
All is not first in thought
Supercilious is the adjective
That threatens the poems simplicity

I write in the dark
I write in the light
A search for a synthetic twilight

Let me tell you a story
About a girl and a boy,

He's got a cupid's arrow,
But he plays it like a toy.

The person she trusted was her friend
was setting up another tent.
She could act like she doesn't care,
She could act like she would dare
To look.
But to see him smiling at her best friend,
In a way that a lover would?

It really cuts her through
her root.