the poem is gone from my tongue.
the bitter taste left in my mouth
washing away with the first rainfall of november.
a haunted repose;
the blinking line taunts this page,
lost soliloquy fading with last night’s dream.
resentful memories take its place.
the insecurity that hid behind infatuation attacks in cold blood.
i’ll never be someone’s first.
maybe never anyone’s last.
i dip my quill into the wounds made,
freeing myself from regret.
you stole my art from me, tainted with love that didn’t exist.
there’s no comfort in my words anymore.
inspiration bled dry, disregarded feelings
juxtapose the journal page from the beginning of you.
trepidation sits in my fingers.
doubt makes a home next to the thorns that have yet to bloom.
questions of my passion swirl under the hovering pen;
the passion left for you is none,
and it’s the only thing i am certain of.
the sun looks different now,
new meaning to be made of me.
