I can't breath, I think of you, a day, gone too soon. I can't breath, the things that I should say; haunt me. If words can save the problem, we'd have lunch at noon. Instead I count the hours and stare at the moon.
We spoke so often, we loved too fast. To think and not to do, to want and not to be. Working for a future; we were never meant to see. I can't breath, as I doted on our past. You, used to say, "our love would be vast".
We were often, a constant but clearly too vapid. You were null, a shell, the gull. My heart a skip, too easy, too rapid. I can't breath, and you're gone. You left, your fill taken, you're full. Maybe a fool, maybe a pawn, but my song won't be sole or on, forgotten maybe but the strings aren't yours to pull.
YOU ARE READING
Lackluster writing...bad writer.
PoetryConfessional poems. These are how I feel about myself and the things around me. These poems mean a lot to me. I may not be a good writer but I wanted at least anonymously to share them.
