And in between the changes she moved a ghost to only haunt my wants .
To deny the needs and linger in such a tormented pleasure the poison leaves only the lust.

In between rounds the music's backdrop faded as thought's of sharks and ****** of all sort simply lingered for the **** and the prey was clear.
She held the keys and I simply admired the view in between drinks .

A good dancer moves with the music and a true one owns the moment and makes you forget all the rest.
She could pop the clutch without ever shifting the gears the nights tension was electric and the passion was as real as the false splendor of the buzz.

Nights are a mystery and **** if her page wasn't worth reading and if not it didn't matter when the mind escapes the wolves .

Never to consider the want **** the politics!
The race was far better than its finish and the night played far better in my favor standing alone.

In those moments we share and between the emptiness we try in vain to fill the scene of perfection and the silence a pleasure in the hours .
Tonight I viewed the devils outline.
She was a picture the fragment of a fix and the night a backdrop. Summer wasn't all that kept the night hot .

As night was chased to light .
Sometimes its best to never show your cards .

As tomorrow was never my destiny but tonight was are pleasure.

The page tattered has seen its share and the rest is best left a mystery.

It was a hell of a view .

Does a poem have to rhyme?
I always wonder
I wonder if the words have to make sense
I wonder and I ponder.
Oh there I go again!
“Just stop rhyming it will come to you!”
The voice in my head speaks out loud.

Is poetry without rhyme more respected?
I always ask this
I ask myself, if the words need to blend.
I ask with each task.
Oh stop it, will you!
“Just bare your deepest feelings on paper”
The voice was a friendly one indeed.

I thought it was strange
not feeling the need to fill pages with your name.
But as I look back I see
how moments with you overlaped with memories of him.
Maybe I should've given it time,
not putting three years of pressure on a three month trial.
But there has to be a reason this is my first poem about you,
and not even this one is completely yours.

People think I'm just a stupid girl who writes more stupid things.
What they don't know it's that the stupid things I write about is in fact my life.
So basically my life it's stupid.

People think I don't care about what they say about me, because what it's not true it's not going to hurt me right?
Wrong, absolutely wrong.
I would like to feel that way every time they tell me something less positive about what I write.
But I don't.
So basically I can't lie about how I feel when I write.

People think love it's true, magnificent and perfect.
You exist to prove that they are wrong.
So basically love it's just a word with legends.

People think that I'm a suicidal girl who hates herself.
What they don't know it's the effort that it takes to pass by another day, breathing, knowing that your life is ****, but still writing.
So basically I don't care about my life, but I care about my poems.

People think they know why I write.
But they don't.
Because none of them would understand that I write to heal myself, I write because it's the only way I can feel alive, they don't understand that.
So basically nobody knows me.

People think they know everything that they need to.
But they don't.
You know why?
Because they don't know me.
They don't know you.
I'm glad they don't, some of them are just stupid people like me right?
So basically the world it's stupid,

And I'm in it.

"I want to be a poet. That's the only thing I really want.
I want to find my own way of writing, my own style.
I know I haven't yet, but I am striving to do so.
How should I put it? It's very hard to explain.

I want to write in a way that they writing is me- is myself.  I want to write so that what I write and the way I write is me, because of the choice of words and the arrangement of the words, the way I combine them, group them together, orchestrate them. For me words are music as well as- as much as- they are meanings.
Writing is different from talk."

-Cordelia
This is All
Aidan Chambers

Please don't
Broken bits don't get to go home,
Shatterd skulls no longer yaw
Skin cut and flayed does not fall.
Mearly drips,
The essence of my life flows.
I am in less control of this.
Then a river controls its bends