It's hard to write about you, you have never made me bleed.
I have no poetry for you, you have given me no wounds.
There is imagery for protectors and the loyal, faithful, steady and strong.
There are soft words for the sweet And language is well suited to lovers, But it seems I only write from pain long past, And scars that fade.
I pick at old scabs when I write, and you've never burned me.
You are more precious than my poetry