Poetry is like gusts of fresh air
Harbinger of the soul’s catharsis
Flowing emotions through the pen
Concealed pain written across the pages
Healing the pain which was long buried

An open
ear
that can't
be seen
will hear
all the
truths that
lie beneath.

I breathe in your scent,
Rich like freshly ground coffee,
And my skin against yours,
In a sweet embrace,
Of friendship turned more,
And my pale skin,
Against your darker tone.

We are what people want,
We are supposed perfection,
But what happens behind closed doors,
Is not what's expected.
One cares for the other,
And one cares for what's offered.

We dance a dance,
Where one is pleasing,
And one is pleased,
But neither one is satisfied.

The dance continues,
Where one is giving,
And one is taking,
And the giver is about to wither.

The dance will end,
When one is dying,
And can offer no more,
To the one who takes,
And when the dying one is empty,
The living one shall leave.

So tell me now,
Is this really what you want?
We may be beautiful,
But inside we're just as fake,
As those Styrofoam cakes,
You find on display,
Because that's what we are,
A display.