she wrote a myriad of poetry
like blood from the wounds
pouring down onto a deep, mystical art

she wrote a myriad of poetry
like she kept her soul in tune
with a thousand words and unfathomed thoughts

she wrote a myriad of poetry
like they were all for the moon;
a midnight composition that often ends in three dots

she wrote a myriad of poetry
like a seamstress who tries to have her heart sewn
from all the inevitable loss and endings that tore her apart.


nonetheless, with tired eyes and hands,
the poet writes, hoping someone would understand.

IA

The other day
A match struck my roughness
And anxiousness took me to be freed by fire
As I burned away all of your rusted memories
Which'd been stored for yet another day
Which turned out to be today
In ashes your words
Cast, burn and floating away

I find myself
adding a lot of commas
in my poetry
Could it be
I need more
breathing space?

the only problem that I haven't told you
it's because you are my dearest friend.
you probably already know,
from the words I wrote,
that it all meant for you.

I'm not ready yet to prepare myself to heart the truth.
Because I know it would **** me softly.