Writing poetry is like a titration: Sometimes, my words spill out in a rose blush, They sink into my parchment and smile sweetly, Lazily, Almost effortlessly. Little would you guess that I've spent hours pouring over my words, Dripping slivers of intensity into my ink, Until it's barely there. If you focus intently, And maybe shift your lighting, You might notice that I have, in fact, left little drops of myself Concentrated into my words.

Other times, I write in a vigorous magenta, My words flash brightly until everyone knows my mistake, I say too much, Emotion slips into my punctuation and I simply cannot stop. Although I try not to make it painfully obvious, It's clear that I have no self-control. And I've ravaged my paper with flaming passion.