She is the words that I
in twenty eight years
could not find
in the most
poignant poetry.
She is the syllables
for which my soul has suffered
through stanzas,
in search of perfection.
She is
the reason for my poetic pen.
She is
the ink that carves
into the blank pages
my life has been.
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 3:51 AM UTC
She is the words that I
in twenty eight years
could not find
in the most
poignant poetry.
She is the syllables
for which my soul has suffered
through stanzas,
in search of perfection.
She is
the reason for my poetic pen.
She is
the ink that carves
into the blank pages
my life has been.
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