In my mind I try to paint a colorful picture of you
But it always comes out black and white
I will never forget your eyes
for how they made my mind color blind

Chased we were into the dying woods
A mob of armored men on the crimson horizon
In all that I do, it was and is for the love of you

Fugitives are we
For what? A serious crime it must be
To fall in love with him and he to love me
Promised to another man I was
But I'll be ****** if I live a life without love

Jealousy of a man has derived
A bounty on your head dead or alive
And double the reward for my return
Every tender loving night with you
Will forever within me burn and burn

Bitter is the understanding
Between we two
You say to me "I'll never stop loving you"
Stopped in our tracks with a fruitless plea
He tells me to go back, that he'll always be with me
For he'd rather watch me from afar with another man
Than me be forever a fugitive in a foreign land

A stubborn gal I've always been
This argument presented, he knows he'll never win
I'd rather run forever or be dead
Than spend a night in another man's bed!

This hopeless romantic devotion
I am overtaken by fervent emotion
As a hail of arrows rains down upon us
I give my love one final embrace
And stare the reaper in the face

Every piercing blow testament of my intense dedication
I knew this love was not without ramification
His beautiful body I shield with my own
These dead woods will forever be my home

it's so ****** up but
I see him in you
same face, same hair
but the eyes
the eyes do not lie
and he is not in your eyes
i miss him a lot.

Everything changes.
Either they become taller or shorter;
too thick or too thin;
darker or lighter;
excess or deficiency;
Too much love it feels like I'm going to burst my heart out or too empty
--I think I am deflated bright yellow balloon.

They change on a new sheet of paper;
and I estranged.
Thanks.

I'm a Disappointment.
I'm an Eventual ****-up.
I'm an utter *******.
I'm not Dead.
Yet.

my soul is poetry.

the inner linings are the stanzas
strong and protecting against the white barrier of a page
or the inevitability of time

it flows like free verse
or runs like rhymes
never stopping, never starting, endless against the hourglass
which is my beating heart

the hollows of my chest are the words I never say out loud
but I spill out on paper like the confessions of a sinner
it is there they are finally allowed eternal rest
and are free from damnation

I am the twists and turns of a sonnet
a side stepped soliloquy
a dead end didactic

I am this
the words i write
the things i feel
the being i am

and i am poetry