You are made up of wet lips and dry eyes,
timeless stories made up of white lies.
I've tried so hard to figure you out,
but nothing but smoky air lies beneath the fingertips that pry.

I am all cracked lips and blurry eyes,
at least that part I can hide.
You can always find a way to make me smile.
It's like a human body is only your disguise.

Every person that leaves me,
leaves me their stories.
I polish them and post them for the world to see.
Denial lies in my hands,
dusting it off,
I make it mine.
A poet's job is to make sure
not a single memory gets left behind.

Why do I write poetry:
Many nights I have slept
With words of yours wrapped all around me
And now every time I lay
Those words whisper to me.
I must write to maintain my sanity.

Why do I write poetry:
Sometimes when I see sunset all I can think of is how you were the light of my eyes and when you left the sun set and it has never dawned since then
And I must write; ode to its remembrance

Why do I write poetry:
Sometimes I get really confused as to where I'm going except that no road will be taking me to you and the brown of the earth is the closest I'll get to have a souvenir of you
And I must write about the brown eyes I no longer wake up to

Why do I write poetry:
Every time you spoke there was a quiet all around while your words etched themselves on my fragile heart
And now there is only chaos left
And I must write to give my heart the silence to reminisce about your voice

Why do I write poetry:
I removed pieces of me to make you a home and now it only aches where my heart should be
And I must write to distract and empty myself of whatever is left

Why do I write poetry:
This is a world where please stay is followed only by a sorry as their response
And I must write because paper never cringes when I confess about my love

I force myself to get up
off the floor
and check on Sister
to see if I woke her up
and need to sing her back to sleep.

We will leave you in the midst
of a poetic truce, as you spill
experiences into our open palms.

Writing to make sense of what
has happened, nestling your
deepest secrets in our fingertips.

Our roots so deep in our poetry,
if you tried to unearth us, we would
shriek louder than banshee's.

Unravel our words, enter the
labyrinth of our minds, there are
sunsets in our stomachs, and
December runs through our veins.

We are the stars to your blank skies,
the pause between each ragged breath,
the tragedy suffocating the air.

We are the pause before the applause,
we are rarity's like Haley's comet,
making you scramble for a telescope.

Only crows writhing with broken
necks are more twisted than the life
stories resting under our tongues.

We are poets, engraved in history,
fluent in all that is artistic and worldly.

Poetry is a warm blanket we remain
hidden in on a cold winter morning.
Reality is a cold floor that our
bare feet are too scared to touch.

*By Rapunzel and JannaLee Perry