Writing

When she just can't think what to write
she courts insanity as a
gentleman caller, equipped with
flowers and gems meant to seduce.
Balancing on the fence between
oblivion and her last hope.

Trapped by the bitterness of a
lonely life. She makes her dates with
her false angel, who brings her hope,
his sensation bound to seduce.
She holds him close and tries to write,
using words to fill the in-between.

She burns to dust her only hope,
trying to find the words to write,
but her words are chased away with
another strange need to seduce.
In her lonely thoughts she finds a
way to fill her heart in between.

She does contemplate the life with
the very men she could seduce,
but it is a life caught between
deep sadness and the starry hope
for something better and a
true love worthy enough to write.

But perhaps she will not seduce,
but in turn be seduced by a
man who will, on her one heart, write
love in all the spaces between
all her veins and arteries with
his own pen jotting words of hope.

These days, she forgets to still write,
to fill all the pens with her hope,
hope expired through disuse, a
lack of sunlight shining between
her room's blinds, willing to seduce
the girl the sun once played with.