Writing My Life Away
If I could write
like other poets,
I would have a voice that the world would listen to.
But I have taken the book off the shelf
too many times.
Dog eared pages staring back at me,
doodles in the margins.
Your words piercing my heart again.
I have them committed to memory.
A merry-go-round of emotions,
never stopping long enough to ask why.
Lost years of desire
and notebooks filled with rhymes.
You were the reason that I wrote.
Never a thought for nourishment or wealth,
only words of dying affection.
The years have passed,
and so have you.
I hold the book in my hands,
wanting my poems to sing out to others,
but the shredded confetti on the floor
tells a different story.
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