She was surrounded by people with different identities
People celebrating being somebody else, if only for one night
Or possibly they were more themselves than ever
Perhaps they're reflecting the monsters they see in themselves at midnight

It was supposed to be a happy night and a fun party
With laughs, good food and jokes
So why were so many people sad?
Oh right, all of our love lives ******

Owen had a crush on Kitty,
Ellie had fallen for Jake,
Nate needed closure with Erica who never even came
And I was in love with the boy allergic to straight answers

With him things can never be in black and white
When I ask him a question yes, no and maybe are all his answers
That boy was a huge mystery
That I intended to master

He wore a tux, a top hat and a mustache drawn in sharpie
And *******, did he look good
I was dressed like Sherlock Holmes
But he was still an enigma I couldn't understand

I must admit, I made a ****** detective
And I could never be a Sherlock Holmes
I wasn't smart enough to get down to the science of how I felt
And as much as I wish I could, I was never able to read his emotions

But I was tired of pining over someone who would never love me back
I needed to tell him we couldn't be friends anymore, because I was too fond of him
Apparently I was more ignorant than I thought
Because according to everyone I was the only one who couldn't see you loved me a lot
So I found you and asked you if that was really true
You smiled at me and said
"No ****, Sherlock."

I taught myself how to write poems in the dark
hiding my words like a fugitive hides from the law
I toss poetry away from my body, as if it is starting to spark
I crumple it up and fling it away, even though the words leave me in awe

I stomp around feeling forlorn
after locking each word in a cage
I hide books the way some kids hide drugs and ****
to each his or her own escape

"writing is impractical" is what I've heard all my life
starting at six, when I stated that I had a writer's voice
now when I mention a poem, all I get from my mother is strife
writing is but a mere hobby, not a high paying, good career choice

writing is never enough
impractical is what writers are
and rima girls are supposed to be tough
we work hard all day, then return to the bar

and since a rima girl I always shall be
a writer will never be me

It seems I’ve managed to memorize your scent as if it were the first day of summer
With the flowers bloomed and the sun blazing high.
I’ve memorized the curve of your smile and the dimples under your lips;
Your beauty simply captured by every blink.

You’re everything I’ve ever wanted;
Every song I’ve longed to hear,
Every word I’ve wished to whisper in your ear
In the way that could only be known as love.

You, my love,
Are the definition of sly smirks and sweet smiles.
You, my love,
Are the beat of my heart to the rhythm of your breath.

You, my love,
Are the raw emotions I’ve never felt and have never believed to be true.
You, my love,
Are what defines love at its finest;

In its truest form,
In its naked and raw emotions,
In its fruitful desire for your hand in mine
And our lips attached and your arms encircling me endlessly

You, my love, are the things they told me about but never warned;
You are the risk
And the f
                      a
                            l
        ­                          l
And the rush in between.

You, my love,
Are worth every breath.
And look what you’ve done: just by your scent
You’ve managed to wrap me right around your finger forever.

                                                                                                        - g.d.