there’s a girl with black
in her eyes. It’s an
ocean, crystal blue,
or a storm, metallic gray.
it’s tar, life, love, hate

and you get my point.

she’s sometimes called
‘Punk’. She doesn’t mind.
she writes when she’s
bored, when that gets boring
she writes. She has a
lovely soul.

i’m a lover of
this poet-girl.
she completes me,
we're the two
similar ones
that attract,
positive and positive.

well, negative and
negative, respectively.
i’m a pessimist, she acts
like a punk. Is there a  
difference?

she’ll take the
words you say
and mold them
like Play-doh.
she’ll take, break and make
you feel like an idiot.
i should speak to her in
poems.

she can’t break those,
i hope.

we were fast
friends. Maybe
lightning-quick.
in less than
a mile around the
track.

i’m like the
money she could
be saving with
Geico,
clinging to
every winded branch
blowing in the storms
of her
eyes.