Why would I help you
when all you’ve done
is take?
You took my heart,
my pride,
my soul,
my breath.
And still you turn to me,
knowing I’ll cave
and let you back in
in an attempt to save.
How can I help you
when I cannot help myself?
Why should I help you
when it only hurts
what little love
I have left?

© Autumn Siders 2010


A fountain pen
and a bleeding heart,
the ink won’t dry
as words fall apart.
The paper’s wet
with every tear
still the words
express each fear.
Emotion’s ripped
right out the soul
for each blurred line
takes its toll.
Painted memories
dull the pain
but black and white
is for the vain.
Pen to paper
ink to blood,
the poem is written,
in a tearful flood.

© Autumn Siders 2017


The more you think you know,

The less you are known to think.

And with every inch you grow,

That’s just one more inch you can shrink.

True love cannot be bought,

Yet love always comes at a cost.

Anytime a battle is fought,

You must prepare for what can be lost.

© Autumn Siders 2014