|| this is for sabrina ||

i know she prolly won't be able to read this because,,, ahm,,, she has a life and can't be just checkin up on my site whenever. anyway, dood, this is for you. how i miss your poetry. the word "surpass" to compare yours to mine doesn't say it enough.

It Isn’t Love

The air, light and plenty, atop of the clouds
Was not meant to float down to those well-endowed
Those whose lives are preened and trimmed and placed on the lawn
For the sun to grace her lavish dewdrops upon
Where the color kings line up to partake in their food
While the gallant white daystars have their coffee brewed
It was not meant for she whose afternoons involved
Countless kisses and cakes, given, taken, not loved

But what for the indignity of justifying life?
Too many sleeping pills and hot baths have been spent
Buying tickets to run to anywhere but the truth
But what for the indignity of loving but not loving?
The heart can only be etherized so much…

The air enters in intervals skipping and still
In the room where the walls inch in jagged at will
Through the song of the trees and the crunches of steps
Past the marshes and logs where the fireflies all wept…
Into holes passing through a blushed lemon’s left eye
To come out as a breeze where white dresses hang dry
But not for the girl whose sky painted above
Framed all of life’s hues but paled drab without love.