In no way do I claim to be a poet. Art was always just a way to bring my insides out, and my poems are nothing more but pieces of me. My inner artist that aches for a response asks that I share this blog with people, but my nature of a perfectionist demands that I don't. If you stumble upon this, I appreciate constructive criticism. Remember, though: perhaps you can't see beyond ruins to the building that once was, so you can comment on its architecture. Perhaps, you take a look inside. This is a communion, after all.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

She.

She wonders in your head
She never goes away
So many things she said
not what you wished she'd say
She crawls inside your arms
She won't be leaving
She rests inside your heart
and messes with its beating
She puts a smile on your face
and soothes away the pain
She'll bring tears in your eyes
and make it all in vain
She gives you wings to fly
and nails you to the ground
She'll keep you up all night
by dawn she'd let you down
She breathes life into your soul
You're burning with her fire
you knew she'd make you fall,
and cry and scream and pray,
and beg and kneel and crawl
a puppet in her play
of loss and pain and sick desire.

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