Ideally she’s an addict
But that isn’t the right word
That conveys the daze
Which challenges her lungs and energy.
I’m drawn to her emotions
A runaway locomotion of late
Dictating her next move
Or rather lack there of.
Puking her world onto a page
Colours acting saviors
A Sharp construction messiah
An insight instructional guide to who I am.
I’m critical and analytical
A cerebral libran
Caught in a square web
While she’s ballooning away from we
Waiting for a sigh that breathes freed
She’s got it all.
Wishing she could walk into a room
Dripping in gold
I wish I’d told her she already does.
Transcending power to scour friendships to admirers
Tiring to watch.
Trying to force each notch into a space it won’t fit
To discover later she’s got a full scripted skit
Of nothing satisfying.