you took my words
when you wrote my poetry
but with prettier words
and painted my art
with more vibrant colours.

you took my friends
because they were sick
of the vulnerable me
and they found your fake smile
was much better than truth.

you took my trust
the night i had to cry alone
because although you heard
my voice break when i called
you still chose to yell over me.

just how much more
do you need to steal
from an already broken girl?
are you scared that if i am whole,
my stars will shine brighter than yours?

"you know, a thief who has stolen from a queen is typically locked away, never to see the light of day again."
"yes, but perhaps my heart was given, not taken."

I should be done trying
But I don't know how to stop
I thought I was over this
But I guess that I'm not
I don't know what to do
I'm losing composure
I'm counting down the days
I'm losing time for closure
What do you call us
We never had a fling
Or a full conversation
Were we ever anything?
I think you're a thief
You stole my attention
From the man I'm going to marry
I just need an intervention
I think I'm am addict
I need you out of my life
So stop showing me interest
Save that for your wife

I sometimes take words that were first used by others
(I'm About to admit I'm a bit of a crook)
Re-hash and re-use them, and make my own covers-
Stealing little known lines from an eloquent book.

I've stolen from Shakespeare, yanked words off of Yeats,
And pilfered from Plato and Brown;
I've probably swiped stuff off all of the greats,
And many of zero renown.

There's more to be heard in the wise words of Wilde
Or took from a Tennyson line
Or the thinking out loud of an inquisitive child,
Than could spill forth from this pen of mine.

So if I've stolen from you, and perchance have offended,
(Yes- I'm about to steal Shakespeare again)
Just think but this, and all is mended;
Nothing original came from my pen.

Which means that, eventually, all that I've ever done
Will be lost in the shadows of time,
Skipped over, or lost, and simply outdone
By your works original shine.

i know a man who steals.
slowly slipping treasures
into those darkened pockets
of a trenchcoat with no soul.  
tumbling down deeper,
further into an endless abyss
so that if i ever may find him
and reach into those pockets
my fingers will reach out
and merely graze the felted sides
and the emptiness below.
he will flash a crooked smile
with eyes full of mischief
and simply laugh at my endeavor,
"girl, those arms of yours
will never grow again
never be able to grasp
all that you seek."
and as tricky as he may be
he will fail to see the strength
that hides in this heart of mine.
a spirit that tears the stitching
of a conniving crook's pocket
from his very own coat.
everything of mine once stolen
-- my happiness
-- my imagination
-- my willpower
will soon be returned
as it was many years before.
the man's name was age.

Crumble
brothels sprout
flesh peddlers collect their fees
selling daughters
in twos and threes
Lopez or Diaz
lazy or defiant
escaped
in polluted lagoons
the virus spreads

Dancing with the dead
priests absolve the devils
in their mist
Pilar sold her virginity
for a few bars of gold
wrapped in an old ladies hatred
she murdered her vows

Mexico is a land of smiles
the knife only glints
in the Aztec sun
as they bury you
after eating your heart