Words that flow,

fall down the river,

onto a page of wonder.

Words are apart of what I am.

Feelings are expressed in my body,

stanzas are full of melancholy,

from woe to delight.

My stanzas are my masterpiece. Artistry and all.

My world is composed of synonyms, alternate or equivalent,

a metaphor is like a simile,

alliteration amazes and awes all around,

personification is a dog, speaking its words of mine.

Different types I can be,

a limerick to a haiku,

witty and quick,

are things I can be.

Shakespeare wrote a sonnet,

the ones that form a story,

like the raven,

a narrative of significance.

Rhyme schemes work their way,

without any delay.  

Internal rhymes are put on for show,

the endings are always rhyming, you know.

Roads were diverged,

tigers burned bright,

canons to the right,

and tears shed on a green-cushioned couch.

Those were the things that happened to me.

Pouring of hearts,

dismissing feelings,

and meaningful remarks.

I am the reason for living people.

The words they write,

form my insides and outsides.

I am the reason they fight.

Fighting for life,

they write and write,

to let it all out,

to finally feel whole again.

My job is to create something beautiful.

Where the words flow,

precisely placed,

in such pristine condition.

The girl just smiled,

a look of contentment glimmers in her eyes.

Blissfulness,

that's the word.

She was happy because of me.

That I knew her thoughts and feelings,

I was a place away from the world,

a hideaway.

I was finally given a name,

Something true and dear to her heart,

“The Verses of My Poetry,”

was I her poetry?

These are the verses,

these are the stanzas,

that make up her world,

and form me.

Her world is optimistic,

comprised of wonder and glee.

The way she writes, and expresses her world…

she does to me.

Downfalls occur,

and she writes even more.

About the sad heartbreaks,

or the loss of a friend.

She loves me.

More than possibly anything in this word.

Hours and hours,

of constant verses and tears.

She doesn’t love me,

when her pencil breaks on my paper,

or when she’s told that I am not good enough,

and she has to forcefully try again.

Poetry spoke to her, as it should to all.

music gave her chills,

and prose let her run freely.

Nothing let her feel as perfect as poetry did.

I made her feel alive,

Words don’t always come out,

that’s why I’m here.

To lend a helping hand.

The last look on her face,

gave me something I’ve never felt before.

Happiness, would you say?

Whatever that is, we felt it that day.