𝐵𝓊𝒹𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝒶𝓎,
𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝑒𝓇'𝓈 𝒹𝒶𝓎
I feel best in my strawberry dress
It's stupid, really
all glee and smile
gee, I acted like a child
It's stupid, really
I thought of nothing
but of my love for you
Godd-mn,
𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦,
𝘪𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘭?

And if it weren't for those times
where impediment
was all I can speak of,  
𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍,
𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎
𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛
synthesizing
my weathered hyacinth
into a 𝕘𝕠𝕝𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝕕𝕒𝕗𝕗𝕠𝕕𝕚𝕝
resided by the lake
of your
evergreen field

Be it 𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕𝕤𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕙, 𝘍𝘪𝘵𝘻𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘥,
𝒮𝒽𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒶𝓇𝑒, or 𝚁𝚞𝚖𝚒
No sonnets on earth
is as beautiful
is as grandeur
as God-made poetry;
You.

If there comes a time
that you might lose me
Find me in my poetry

If indeed
my heart knows
every word
to this song,

why then
does my voice
argue that it
should never
be sung?