my wings burned as a fell, i was only an angel in your light
when cast down to my fire, you saw me as the demon of my name
we were never religious but my every fear was the faith within you
my spirit, being, purpose built by your hands, now fallen and deconstructed
It eats me from the inside out
devouring the womb that made it
consuming the one who consumed it
it is the thing that brings me to my knees
in the middle of the night
when only the dark speaks my name
my creator is the only one who can cast me down
falling from the light of a god I never saw
The endless burning and swell of my lungs
Running towards the very thing I used to run from
Eyes wild and eager, pouring and consuming
Involuntary twitches of arms waiting to hold you
Love is a addictive poison and an spirited hunter
How I would devote my life to it is phenomenal
midnights, tea, and walking
twine, forks, and paint
tiny little things
my brain collects tiny little things
it litters them about hoping
hoping the bread-crumbing works
that it will lead you to me
Sheep’s Clothing
You were not a wolf in sheep's clothing that was hunting them
You were not the deceiver
Nor the liar
You were the friend doing everything you could to fit in
Donning a cloak of wool and hooves
Hoping your paws and fur wouldn't be a problem
You didn't know you could bite till they got too close
The morning was filled with a blooming bubbling excitement
The morning was dotted with star-crossed memories
The morning was spilling and pouring out of my cup
The morning dragged itself to a quiet demise
The morning creaked, groaned, and ached through a long goodbye
The morning was a stuttering dead engine
The morning glowed with an overwhelming radiance that consumed my soul
The morning breathed new life through every noisy vent in my house
The morning was dampened with an ever-thickening mist
the ironwood doesn't have sap
it bleeds a dark ichor blood
it stains the wood dark
the dryad dies in the woods
pulled by strings
a doll made of wood
sits under the oak tree
bugs and dirt adorned
a girl made of wood
her strings cut
her eyes non-existent
she is face-blank
it doesn't speak
listen for the footfalls
they've come to bury
a doll made of girl
a cavity in place of heart
a void in place of spine
wood doesn't beat
even though it lives
she's been cut down
carved up and varnished
she is perfect for the viewer
i could write a thousand metaphors
surrounding water, fire, earth, air, and everything in my eyes
i could write a thousand poems
no meter, rhythm, or style just form and words
i probably will but they won't be enough
enough being the unachievable mission
there aren't enough beautiful things-
museums, art, music, books, nature, space, and people
-in the world to replicate the way I feel for you
you are more than enough for me
you are my impossible