Despite the fact that I think about your presence
constantly
you're a ghost.


All I have are the memories.

The thing about her is that she's too beautiful to be spun into metaphors, and yet the poets try.
She's royalty and elegance.
She's made of stardust and galaxies.
She's freedom, She's honesty.
She's not the clichéd red rose, but is a bouquet of rare orchids.
She's mystery and her eyes are wildly magical.
Her rage is a hurricane but she is as calm as the ocean.
She's carved from iron and she has felt the blazing sun.
She's an earthquake of miracles.
She's raw power.
She's art.
She defines imperfection in the perfect way possible.
She's all these metaphors in the body of a seventeen year old.
Now do you want the poets to stop?

She's mine to keep
To hold in my arms
And love forever

She's a piece of art
Waiting to be noticed
By every soulful being

She's a short sentence
Really sweet
And sharp to the point

She's a hopeful girl
Who dreams of life
Being lived the way she wants it

She's a beautiful thought
Stuck in your head
Like a catchy tune

She's the top prize
That you win at the fair
And keep close for a life time

She's my girl

She's a masterpiece painted behind the blank canvas.
Such a shame,
All they see is beautiful white.