In a house full of unread books
In a house full of unworn clothes
Lived a lady with an unused heart.
I often wondered how this ladies heart came to be
Full of thorns and full of scorn.
In a house of open heart
In a house of open mind
Lived a lady with open wounds.
People often wondered
How she came to be
Surrounded by brambles that she refused to cut.
In the house full of stale laughter
In the house full of fresh tears
Lived a lady that was numb from the heart.
I often wonder how it will end
Apathy and self pity create barriers impenetrable
For the lady with a heart of thorns.

Are there any moments
When you read a book
Or hear a song
A phrase maybe
And the thoughts
Of the one you once loved
Crosses your mind

I honestly can't even write decent poems. I do not deserve the privelige of being regarded as a poet, I am a disgrace to all of us. I apologize

It is
only when
the if becomes the then
outside
the comfort zone
that we
learn
to fly.

Dead thing
dismembered
prone on the sand
beyond the tide's line,
a torso of tree
amputated
of branches,
limb-free,
lying helpless
at the mercy
of the sea's reach.

So I danced along the current of pain and agony, until the day we met.
I was like a rose with thorns, so how afraid you might get?
But you watered me everyday, making me bloom to the core,
And as you disappear, I wither, with misery swallowing me in, once more.