am.

His hands were stained

And so were mine.

His delicate fingers

Smudged with paint,

Pale fingers colored blue

And wrists dyed red,

Those hands were made

To paint a canvas.

And as the dark crimson

Leaked through my palms,

As I held the blade in my arms,

I realized,

I could make a masterpiece too.

The poets pen that love is shared,

Scared to those of kindred souls.

But mine and his were doomed to fail.

For from the start,

He’d had half a heart,

And I was eager to give him more of mine,

For deep, deep down the sweet pink heart,

Thought they’d end up

With minds that matched.

How hard she’d gripped

The half hearted hand,

Oh how much she’d loved

The changing eyes!

head bowed.

for the goddess in her true form,

no one was allowed to see.

the sword's head rested on the floor,

it had tasted blood and

longed for more.

the divinity of her wrath threatened to swallow him whole.

begging for mercy,

an option no more.

legends spoke much of her kind dark eyes.

no one lived to tell the tale

of her lethal smile.

The books were white pills of escape

They don’t work anymore.

The rain used to free my mind before

It’s become walls of water now.

The wind that rustled through my hair,

Sparked ideas which blossomed on ink.

The winds were dead today.

The soul that jumped at their words yesterday,

Can’t bear to lift up its head.

I don’t know anymore

Why the grin doesn’t stretch

Why flowers feel so blue

And the moon so sorrowed.

Today the worlds a hazy blur

And I’m in my own cage.

Her sword fell ringing to the floor,

Blood trickled down her dress of sapphire blue.

He’d fallen to the ground,

Knees weak to the pull,

Tired smile on his face,

Her blade in his chest.

She’d known and so did he,

For the crown,

She’d kill him again.

Of her mundane life,

Of her tearing armour

& sheathed sword

The war for the crown and the blood spews all around,

Of her chains of ink that bound her to the brown.

And when the sun goes to hide,

When the crown’s heavy on her head,

As she leans against the paper wall,

She prays to the stars for an early end.

He picks up the book,

It’s the old, tattered one again.

He reads it slow, fearing the end.

He soaks up each word, like it’s the last he’ll ever read.

The book’s become home, a solace for sad souls.

The book’s become home and so has the girl of ink who never feared the war.

He’s down against the floor,

Life tight in his arms,

And she knows,

She knows,

She’d go to war for him again.

If you think about it, its weird.

We're staring at inked patterns

On the slices of a dead tree.

But hey, there is something.

Something about this silly activity,

That's not silly at all.

Inside our heads, we're creating our worlds

Fighting wars with people we'll never forget.

Flying cars, swinging swords,

Rescuing friends and ascending thrones

Dwarfs, dragons, mermaids and more

Memories to cherish until the very end.

A little part of me, every world I go,

A piece, a souvenir for every adventure.

Alive I feel, each book, each read

The turn of the last page always leaving me

Ready for more.

She was a force beyond the human mind.

The whole kingdom feared the lady

Who wore black to the ball.

People at her feet,

Crown on her head

Studded with stones of ruby red.

She favoured red, no mystery as to why

It was the colour of blood after all.