The thief-- she
Took to me
A bit too well--
It was too long before I could tell
Just how much she was taking.
Every piece she was making
Soon turned from hers to mine;
Though she was stealing food
When we sat down to dine.
My words, my soul,
Coming from a theif
Not a month old.
My fingerprints on her gloves.
What did I do
To deserve this?
For you
To take the things I love?
Poetry is
No longer
What makes me stronger,
Above
The crowd.
My voice from your throat
Is far too loud.

The day you left
You took something from me
Softly, quietly,
Pretending you weren't a thief

You ran out
In the middle of the night
And I know I deserved
A better goodbye

You were a liar
But so was I
When I said “I love you”
Thank god I lied

You couldn’t steal my heart
‘Cause you didn’t know
Where it was

So instead you stole my pride
So I wouldn’t be the first
To leave you behind

She's a poet who writes for relief
and that made her a thief
Destroy every joyful people's belief
because she writes poetry
that will make you feel such grief. —Tin

A mosaic of falling seeds
spins me sickly into a coma.
The only thing that saves, keeps
me from tumbling down - her aroma.

All the thoughts like ants have gone away,
they crawled through my ears, my mouth.
Oh, the mouth, the royal taste - just stay,
rave on my flesh, love well-wrought .

And there I lie - on the lips
that are not mine - neither his.
Rather die than lose those strips
of pretty scarfs I could kiss.