She is poetry
Just she
All alone
She needs not eloquent words
Or a soft voice
She needs only her sensual, unhappy, soul
And she is poetry
She is poetry because she is imperfection
At its finest
She's screwed up in every imaginable way
She wants to be happy, then die
Then she will live forever
Or fade away without knowing true joy
And by this, she is poetry
She is poetry not because of her beauty
Even though that is what she holds most dear
It's not because of her laugh
Or all her doting admirers
She is poetry because she is sad
She will never be finished
Never fulfilled
By this, she is poetry
She is poetry and she will never realize it
Beautiful, maybe, and popular, too
But if she realized the truth
Then it would be truth no longer
And she would stand out to me no more
She is oblivious
And ever shall be
To the hunger inside her
That unhappy soul
By this, she is poetry
To me.
