Misunderstood, that's what I say. I'm a muse
of beauty, of silk woven from self.  My patterns
entice the morning dew to linger upon my
creations of simplistic beauty, tears fall.

I do not invite your destruction of what was
versed from my being. But your jealousy entraps
you to destroy what you have not naturally woven.
Tattered strings of my nights work fall and I
tirelessly recreate what was portrait of my worth.

Weaving my creations, I will not falter from
my course. Heed my whispers for without
me flies would converge upon your dwellings.
But I take pride in my work of collecting undesirables.
I sit silently patiently, this is my life's work.

When I was knee high to nothing
I asked inquisitive questions...

And with those answers I became me..

I would want too, if now, I asked the question??

If you are which you say? why so many books!!

If reality was based, wouldn't one book suffice,
But you made conflicting interests, like baiting
a hook. Why do we have to be slaves to ourselves
always begging on knees. To those of confused
reflections seeing you in themselves, but all the time
wording it to make them hate, difference of man
and woman others not he same as me?
but you conflict with love and preach the other thing.

If I was to ask one thing?

"Were grown now, out of the cradle of insecurities,
"Are hand needn't be held, were stronger without you,
*"I am me, not a reflection of your confused morality,

Thanks all to those that liked and commented on
my poem of the day surprised but chuffed :)

Thanks all for reading my ink this as well as others.
it means a lot that even though I have little time to
write as well as read some do read my ink ;)

Lying at my feet the outstretched remains of where I was,
silhouettes fragmented beyond their holding.
Naïve in the realization that this could have been
retained any longer than this.

I kept it within this vase, never watering it hoping
it would wither, but somethings don't die.
Petals would dwindle and stagnate where they
had collected in the shallow corners of dejection.

Jagged portraits painted on the ground were fading
to nothingness. As I walked away that vase of
depleted meanings, of fading desolation now were
singular from me.
                     I was never holding it again, I'm now free.

Expressions of what grew,
                      but you felled it.


With  a singular word,
         love fell like a tree in a forest..

No one knew it was unheard,
except in the heart of the fallen.