You can't label her a metaphor,
And capture her inside your lines,
Just because she is a word,
that no one has learned to define,
You can't trap her in your poem,
Behind the bars of all your words,
She's worth more than all your similes,
And precious secrets left unheard,
You can't tell her where she belongs,
The way you trap the lines in what you write,
Because she is more beautiful,
Than all the stars you see at night,
you can't tell her she's not perfect,
Just because she doesn't rhyme,
And that she won't live forever,
Unlike your words cemented into time,
You can't label her a poem,
Because she has so much more beneath her skin,
Than all the words you trap on paper,
That only hold your ink within
~a.q