If you are a lover of words,
you’d understand the
beautiful curse      that befell us,
those who strive and endeavor
with a passion planted inside us
that flourishes and thrives.
Like Athena and her web,
our webs are made of
hundreds of words, woven with
our pencils like needles,
and so we get better at
sewing our works.

A girl
once loved words
wholeheartedly,
but occasionally tried
to let love go
before sewing poems
became her favorite thing
and nothing more.

Love used to be rare.
It used to be that you searched your entire life, and if you were lucky? You found someone you truly loved. But odds are, they didn't love you back, or maybe they did love you, but you loved someone else. It was a painful cycle; you went from person to person, searching for that missing piece of yourself somewhere inside one of them.                                                                 But when you thought it wasnt worth it anymore, when your heart just couldn't handle the burden of being incomplete, you found the will to move forward, you pulled yourself out of the bottom of that chocolate ice cream tub and moved on with your life just like everyone else had to do. And maybe, you kept searching; maybe you decided that you were content with being alone. But either way you found a way for love to make you happy, whether it be that you found that person who had that missing piece or you simply found a way to love yourself and there was never a need for another. Love always Natuarally found a way to affect people both negatively and positively but in the end, love used to be horribly gratifying.

Now? Love isn't rare. You can find it in a coffee shop; as a matter of fact you could find it in just about any coffee shop on this street. You could pay a hundred and fifty bucks for it on the streets of downtown Seattle or you could take it home from the casino. This is what love is these days. Love isnt a beautiful feeling, it isn't about finding the missing piece. Love is about who can give you a better ******, or who can make a better sandwich. Love has changed from what it used to be, a challenge to find a person who feels as strongly about you as you do about him, to a competition about who can offer you the most. The real meaning of love has been distorted. And now, we dont even have to search for it. Excuse me, I guess we do search, but not the real way. We dont have to leave it up to fate and get our hearts broken time and time again. We fill out a profile, upload a picture that has been messed with for hours, perfecting our hair or cutting a few inches off our waist. Then we press search, and instantly, there are hundreds of people who are perfect for you, guaranteed or your money back! But five years down the road, when you’ve married and divorced several of these “soul mates” you were matched with, there’s no refund then. Now you'll pick someone who has the most to offer you, tell him that he’s your one and only and have an empty, emotionless relationship that will only be ruined when he catches you sleeping with the pool boy.
Now, love is just horrible.

Once upon a concrete fairytale
There lived, and loved, a girl
With eyes of cuts of sky
And lips of roses red.

She aimed to be kind,
And she aspired to be perfect,
And though it's what you saw
She often fell short,
Like a shot of whiskey;
This lovely, golden girl.

If she so wished,
The stars would have been her hairnet,
The midnight ink her silent gown,
And suitors the slippers that caressed her feet,
The ones she walked all over.

She was described as
Spring; as laughter in liquid form
To be drank in slowly; as ice
On the spine - so revitalizing;
Like your future,
Like everything you wanted.

But she didn't want
Any part of herself.
She found her words too sweet,
Her beliefs too strong,
She found her own life and song too stifling.

And her Prince was a long time coming.

And you watched her wither,
Eat poison apples, and wake herself up,
You watched her become still, and quiet,
With the lonely that froze her
Out of her own heart.

And so you, her jailer, with your watchful stare,
Took pity, and, releasing her,
From her self made chains,
You told her to cut her hair, to dress different,
To do anything to reanimate her mind.
You gave her the key.

And she used it.
Then she threw it out the tower,
So it could never again enslave her,
And then she jumped after it.
Chasing sweet, unparalleled freedom.

And she lived happily ever after
In the hearts and minds of men.

No puppet strings attached.