My works are horrid attempts at success.
Imploring words of hatred; bits of love.
Distinct stanzas and paragraphs with haste.
Like angels and wispy clouds up above.
Unable to compare to such delight.
Tranquilize myself for self sympathy.
Novels, not perfection, make me complete.
False words of endearment fade blissfully...
Free verse and fiction conceal my true self.
A pair of sculpted hands hold my dear heart,
a sad novelist; name I can’t recall.
Bruised plums, but happy dreams: best type of art.
I’d die for you to understand my words.
Write with your soul; worst bees soar with best birds.