When I get in this mood to write, and write, and write.

Why does it never feel right.

I feel like a writer devout of a soul.

I feel like a story that's already been told.

I feel like just another lesbian who was in love with a straight girl.
Even though we fooled around and I loved her when I first met her.

Obviously, that is all the past, but why do I feel so compressed as to only write poems about her?

It's not fair but ******* it her hair.
You weren't there.

Eyes of green and visits so rare.

I know what I felt and I know what I saw.

As nervous and young she was still in awe,

She told me I was beautiful and falling in love.
For me that was a blessing from a goddess above.

Of course she left me for a white man.

Little did I know she was just an experimental
white
girl.