I met you in September
When the leaves were just tempted to change
I met you in September
When the earth felt like autumn in the rain
I met you in September
3 months shy of my birthday
I met you in September
apart from headache or drama
I met you in September
listening to Frank, Kendrick and Lana.

I met you in September
and so I say it clear
I only met you in September
because it's my favourite month of the year.

I feel my chest filling up with pressure
my heart is in knots
and my stomach hurts
I am feeling so very sad that it’s painful
I’m so sad about this whole thing
I guess I just have to say I’m laying in bed and my throat feels like it’s closing as I choke back sobs
They say good times will come
I’m starting to become afraid that I’ve used all of my good times in the past
I have given so much of myself to people I’ve become used up
and left with an empty shell of a girl who used to laugh and sing and dance and take silly photographs and drink a little too much, read and write poems
I’ve become the shell of that girl
and I miss her very much

Black rose trapped in a cage of white pages...

Like the white waning moon marooned in a black winter sky!

My only friend's a page
Who knows all my rage
She hides it very well
There's no secret she would tell
My thoughts are bound
In lines they can be found
Set in an eternal rhyme
That seemed to echo throughout time

A quiet little peice
Of mind that just wants peace
"Write", it tells me
"Write", it commands me
"Write until you're dumb!
"Write until you're numb!

I’m a page of the book of life
Once pure and lure and white as white
Oh! Now tinged with too many inks
Still many are waiting to scribble a few.
With puny hands some wrote me soft
Some are harsh they tear my heart
Supple hands draw labyrinth lines
My prosaic precincts some plundered and pierced.
Now the book is with a naughty child
He tears the pages as he please
One by one or bunches of many
My weary long page will last in his jest.

Just write
Express your thoughts
On backs of napkins if required to
Sand at beaches
Dust
Snow
Mud
Any surface will do!

Weaved darkly within the veins of
the page,
          the ink bleed when
I read you
the last breath before papercutting
                    the last words from your


windpipe...
    
the ink just bleed on the page, smudging
          your last meaningful words.

Sorry I should have really removed
        my hand so you could scream..

But silence is bliss
and I you were a bleeder..
                 I had to wash you off me....

And that was a lot of soap...