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?

Overcautious.
I am a vault, and you are the new lock keeper.

2. Overwhelmed.
You had me at first sight, your beauty and you charm.

3. Overjoyed.
You made me so ecstatic, you cannot possibly do any harm.

4. Oversight.
You failed to notice, I am flesh and blood, constructed of flaws.

5. Overgrown.
My love for you, and all the little things you do.

6. Overbearing.
I discovered this new side, you had buried it deep inside you.

7. Overused.
But ofcourse, those treacherous three words, the hollow I love you's.

8. Overstep.
The boundaries and limits, have been crossed way back.

9. Overprotective.
My walls are back up, and you have been pushed with the broken fragments of my past, way up above the rack.

10.
Oh this one came so slowly, after five painful months of ***** and three AM phone calls, to spill poetry that I would never show you, but it finally did come, leaving me so happy, when I finally got, Over you.

It's not my fault.
I've been hated and betrayed.
Judged and stabbed.
I'm not good with feelings.
With tears and blood - the price I've paid.
But you already knew that.
You said it anyways.
It wasn't based on facts.
It was just a thought.
Your apology was a million I love you's, as if reassuring yourself.
This isn't going to break us, this too shall pass.
But this is pretty big, even if it's the first time we've fought.
Your trust is broken, it lies shattered on the floor.
But you blame yourself, making sure I don't destroy myself.
You're putting a bandaid on a fractured heart,
In order to mend us, it is hurting me more.
But I already know this.
I let you do it anyways.

What I was
A lost soul in a crowd,
Scars covering my wrists.
What I am
A failure - never proud,
With pent up anger in my fists.
What I want to be
To be heard - clear and loud,
I'm made of stardust, meant to move mountains, not simply exist.