Pour and burn.

There isn't any page left to describe the complexity of your soul.
So I am using the trees of my own forest to stop blackening my skin with your adjectives.
They are tough, they can handle my composition. 
The weight of it is heavier on my tongue
I refined my words, cut them, sharped them so they fit you here.

I am running out of ink now.
Would I have enough sap if I cut the wood. Would it be enough ?
But should I destroy my whole forest just for your praise ?

Eros declared me the war so I stole Cupid's arrows to protect my heart from ache, but apparently I am not a good archer. 
An now I am watching my forest burn as my obsessed writing inflames those trees,
the ink isn't even dry and is streaking my face as its dark glittering liquid pours on my legs, making hard to read your adjectives on my skin.