writing poetry is not easy, in fact your born with it.
some people say i cant do it, i agree.

As i sit here next to my inspiration i think, i think and think

my mind turning and turning just for the idea to come.
WHEN.....

i get the idea I've been looking for.

A 'friend' once said,
"Never take anything a guy says to heart. We lie. We break hearts. We take advantage of good people."
I didn't understand at first.
Over the next months, I realised that he had become the manifestation of his own words.

I am
Long hair and swinging hips
With natural pouty lips
A smile that hides my intellect
A piercing gaze you can't forget

I am
Long legs with large soft thighs
With yellow flecked eyes
The sweetest of your dreams
The nightmares that evoke screams

I am
The girl with the skull tattoo
Who wants more too
The bringer of your pain
Who only wants the same.

I am
She who died inside
Until you made me rise

She said she collects pieces of sky,
cuts holes out of it with silver scissors,
bits of heaven she calls them.
Every day a bevy of birds flies rings
around her fingers, my chorus of wives,
she calls them. Every day she reads poetry
from dusty books she borrows from the library,
sitting in the park, she smiles at passing strangers,
yet can not seem to shake her own sad feelings.
She said that night reminds her of a cool hand
placed gently across her fevered brow, said
she likes to fall asleep beneath the stars,
that their streaks of light make her believe
that she too is going somewhere. Infinity,
she whispers as she closes her eyes,
descending into thin air, where no arms
outstretch to catch her.