I miss the words;
that sweetly born from my ink
and the courage that I found in my sweat,
a kiss was the price to every verse,
just a lost soul...
It drains me to draw a verse.
I exhibit my body, wheat colored skin to sun.
Opens my hazel sight, honey in summer, were
I rest in your full lips,
long curls caressing my own...
Sometimes I'm lost in both realms,
a poet whom lost verse seems to runaway from her.
I don't know, maybe...
I'm just dreaming antiquities of my vague life;
between me, myself and I.