As a sword to my belly she broke free from my frame
a life to live freely, I gave her my name.

Through thunder and blood, tears upon joy
we suffered our love over every dumb boy.

Arisen from ashes, a woman she stands
brave as I raised her, no slave to a man.

Yet deep in the battle my own heart was slain
her words cut so deeply, leaving no empty vein.

Her strength turned her icy, her heart of stone
She faces a cruel world, fearless and alone.

My instinct to save her but none shall I do
My love shall go with her, while I remain mute.

For all I have given, one day she may come
to find me quite empty for I am undone.

We're drowning
Together at least
I try to move for the surface
But you pull my hand
As if to say it's too far
And for all I know
It might be
So I rest at the bottom
Right next you
I feel the air almost gone
And then you go
You betray me
You push me to boost yourself
Looked me in the eye the whole time
And I always will remember that look
Not sadness
Not regret
It was more like anger
Like you had won
And while you swam to the top
I watch you
As my air
Is completly
*Gone

my undivided attention,
the way my intense gaze falls
on the outline of your lips,
as you continue speaking
but the words contain no meaning;
just the sound of our heartbeats
eradicating in unison.

countless restless nights
tossed under blankets with immense heat
or infinite coldness
the sight of your turned back
freezing every toe faster than winter
an awkward snow angel
I am numb

but for those small moments
as flashes in your overcrowded life
did you like it?  

I gave you ownership
of the very essence of my being
and you didn't notice.

Writer
[noun]

someone who cultivates raw dirt to produce a single flower, blooming from the depths of their soul;
but grows addicted to its presence --beauty amongst darkness.
and in attempt to conceal the muddy reality, develops a garden with lavish, beautiful flowers--
of assorted variety, with unique traits of every flower and indistinguishable as stars in the night sky;
but harsh winter tramples with intricate footsteps, the petals tragically withered and torn as the writer's heart
their watery eyes acknowledging the dirt once more.

Maybe tomorrow
I can cry
about something
different