i wrote a poem for you again
but i know you'll never read it
compared you through metaphors
stanzas in lines of fours

i threw the paper in the trash
it'll barely even reach your grasp
a rhythmic, poetic failure
things i assume to be a disaster

never was i the cleverest writer
only to write when inspired
the image of you in my head
when i'd rather have you next to me instead

thoughts i have and thoughts i write
awake in the middle of the night
honey it's 12 o' clock am
and i wrote a poem for you once again

My lust, my thirst,
Day by day happen to increase,
But the truth is it darling,
That my life till date has been cease (d)

Although all poets write well, only those becomes popular who learn to respect the work of others..

She is her words --
        the letters in the lines;
        the art tattooed on pages.

She is mystery --
        the secrets and signs;
        the lies and her guise.

She is astonishment --
        the curved pathways in pages;
        the plot twists on the edges.

She is sadness --
        the tracing downfall from a cliff;
        like how she fell for you.

She is madness --
        the explosion of everything;
        the collision of all universe.

She is beauty --
        the art on gritty surfaces;
        convergence of different abstractions.

She is death --
        the poison to your heart;
        the knife before your eyes.

She is life --
        the birth of vivid events;
        the breath of memories.

She is love --
        the beating of each stroke;
        the thing you have from her.

She is her words --
        the black and blue on papers;
        the prisoner of her book.

You know I love you
You know what makes me smile
And what makes me cry
You know what brings me laughter
Even what makes me sigh
More importantly
You know what's gonna break my heart...

But still... You did...

So confused
So conflicted
It was
her
Then it was
Me
Then repeat
Now it's on
Me
Again
So conflicted  
So confused
k.s.