"Get back to work!"  the voice shouted out

"There is work, you ****, to be written about!"

"Ok!" I said, as I stared at his head

This story is over, this poem is dead.

Baby, you wrote love on me all over
I thought your words would help me grow
But it seemed my luck had no clover
There were books that I had yet to read and know

You weren’t being honest with me
We were just a made up story
No, you weren’t being honest with me
Pages after pages I couldn’t see

I’ve taken the pages
I’ve torn them apart
Replicating what you’ve done to my heart
Call it a board because you’ve thrown the dart
you’re the author of my broken heart

I want you to hold me and say...
but you don’t say,
and I am angered inside.
Charged up like a bull,
you are teasing me with
your red flag
and at night...
When you reach out to empty,
It makes me feel so empty.
Your skin, on my skin
makes my skin crawl.
I want to slip into the darkness
of the comfortless night,
separate my soul from body,
peep in through the windows to see what
we’ve become.
You’re that monster...
Not hiding under the bed but sleeping next to me.
Yet how could this monster look so beautifully at peace?
My pillow is drenched now,
still stained from previous nights
when words were too difficult to express how I felt.
So I let this salty stream do the talking,
It flows out so effortlessly.
Even then they’re too silent in our silence.
One day I will find the courage
to wear your red flag,
and cast away the love you keep rejecting...

She is mellow like yellow.
A halo around her head,
as swift as light breezes
on a spring Sunday morning.

She isn't too much,
but more than you can handle.
A kohled vision,
that will never see evil.

A small vessel for her,
to carry a big soul,
and enough room for you
to share with her... a home.

You can find her in the usual place,
Sitting, drinking her comfort in silence,
Slowly swirling the earth in her hand,
The steam rising from her cup,
A brewed friendship flows into her mouth.

With you she’ll pour your pain in a mug,
Her honey eyes will wash your sorrows down,
As in you continue to sip the dark remedy.
Watch the vapours escape and dance with elegance,
With her nothing ever tastes bitter.

Not ev-ree-wún can put words down
In stanzas and lines
And make them rhyme.

Not ev-ree-wún will pour out
Their hearts on a page
To clear out the rage.

Not ev-ree-wún wants to write
When they are in pain
Depressed or afraid.

Not ev-ree-wún can be honest
With themselves
And write about how they feel
About something or someone else​
Or even themselves.

Not ev-ree-wún can be creative
Not ev-ree-wún can tell the truth
Not ev-ree-wún can be a pow-it.