Erin Beckett Poet Free verse

Realist

I lose count of words

were whispers the only way
but too soft or too vain,
then could I hold back and hurt
in ways speaking volumes 
you never knew,

I would. And stare 
into mirrors looking
for the words of a woman 
I wish I were

But this too moves 
me on to her and all she's gained
for trying, a thousand pieces 
sometimes well put

Those I'll claim
for all the worth,
asking not but what is 
surely selfish

And I'll bear shame
for the art of a realist
for the natural wish 
that she never be lost,

that you never forget her name

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