She's tryin' to not be poetic
but it's like methapors
doesn't leave her bones.
Words wander in her mind
turns to mediocre poems,
never one of a kind.
She can write poems made out
from the last cigarette she smoked,
or the last hill she drove.
She can write poems made out
from the dirty laundries
in her bedroom's floor,
or from the photographs taped
in her bedroom's door.
She can write poems made out
from the memories you left,
or from the promises you broke.
She can write poems made out
from love
and broken hearts
and September-blue.
She can write poems made out
from you.