Finally, after so many years of dreaming… You know, the kind where you lay in bed just imagining, making up worlds and places, I can now say that I do have a poetry book.

The poems tell a story in 20 of them, separated into ACT I and ACT II.

I use the help of AI for punctuation (I do change some things) and the help of Grammarly to do my own edits, while they don’t replace editors I do have to make do with free-to-use tools currently.

Poetry Book no. I ACT II

In the Beginning

In the dim flickering light

Of the oil lamp on my bedside table

I am Drunken on wine,

Thoughts about him,

Which intoxicates me more,

I cannot tell.

But I grip onto a quill,

As if

Writing poetry about him…

Was my only saviour.

a Fire Was Lit in Her Heart

And I wish

That my poetry was a flammable fluid,

With words spilling from my fingertips,

The smell of petroleum,

The light of a match,

Set his world

On fire.

and She Feared Him Fading

So,

Today,

I wrote a poem,

Crippled by my fear

That he will fade

Into the cruel passing of time,

Forgotten,

Lost,

Like my admiration,

Rotting,

Ten feet under.

So She Wrote a Poem

So, can you see now…

That I have lost my mind?

The sea of emotion has swallowed me whole,

And oh sweet mother of mine,

Can you tell?

Your daughter,

Doesn’t want to emerge.

Mother, Look at Her

His eyes.

If that was not poetry,

Written in two words…

I

Don’t

Do

POETRY.

With a Prayer on Her Lips

Here I lay,

In the darkness of my room,

Praying to all the Gods that I know,

That someday,

Somewhere,

Someway,

We can meet each other,

And have conversations,

Drunken on wine.

Her Lust Arose

And maybe,

We could…

Share a kiss,

Or two.

Let our worlds

Align.

Dearest Mother, She Is Going To See Him

Dearest mother,

Today I did my face,

Subtly,

And garishly.

My cheeks the colour of peonies,

And my face pale from fear.

My eyes swollen from the arsenic…

I haven’t slept in days.

Petrified, Avoiding His Eyes

So,

I stood there…

My garments drenched,

Just like when I was a child

Standing barefoot in our garden,

With rain falling down my skin.

Waiting,

Deluged by poetry untold,

Choking on words,

I could not make rhyme.

With Belladonna in Hers

Like a maiden in love,

With my eyes glistening

In the lights above my head,

As if he was the belladonna to my pupils

I was a deer caught in headlights…

And he was

The definition

Of poetry.