I love playing with emotions.

Nothing has ever given me greater joy.

 

That’s why I write,

 

So I can send you into a mine

With precious stones glittering,

Magnifying a hair of sunlight

Until the entire chamber

Is blindingly bright.

But as the sun descends,

The jewels cannot overcome the dark.

And you cannot find your way out.

 

Maybe I am a siren,

Calling you with joyful songs

And leading you to your death.

 

Maybe I am a mirror,

Showing you beauty with one glance

And horror with the next.

 

Maybe I am a poem,

Taking any feeling,

Any sense and tangling it up

Into words until you are trapped,

The poem’s thick vines choking you.

And they seemed so tame before.

 

Maybe I am the ocean,

A beauty to watch but don’t forget

Any moment spent with me that you are not dead

Is merely a gift of my giving self.

 

Maybe I am a woman,

A mess of emotions my self

And I just can’t help but play with yours.

 

Maybe I am

Your magnum opus,

Or your shaking knees

That buckle every time you stand.

Maybe I am nothing more

Than simple words on a page.

 

But how will you know

Unless you let me in?