When Inspiration to Write Poems Walks Away

She looks like a work of art,

The way her eyes portray her soul,

The way her hair paints a picture around her face,

The way her words describe her desire, heart, hurt, and despair,

I remember looking at her hurt.

Do not play with my heart,

Because I started writing poetry for you,

Do not throw the dice hoping for the perfect roll,

Do not make my heart race,

Because these words will become wild and not know what they mean,

Do not make it hard for me to breathe air,

I remember it really hurt.

So, there I go,

Marching on the battlefield,

With a gun and a new hope in my hand,

Not these chocolates and flowers,

But a black ink pen and paper,

Hopefully I'll get out of herealive,

But the way this goes,

You'll shoot,

And down I die.