The touching of pen to paper
The writing of the word
The sound of the flowing ink
By the readers ear is heard

Thoughts are written down
Upon a pages empty lines
To be forever kept
Till the end of time

The stories they are many
For there are many hands that write
The words travel from mind to pen
As the writer puts the words to flight

Words are written to be enjoyed
Through the readers eyes
To lift his thoughts up higher
Far beyond the azure skies

Books are an adventure to write
As along with the characters you join
But writing has no pleasure
Such as the writing of a poem

One moment I want you
The next, unsure

One moment my hearts open
The next, a closed door

One moment feelings overwhelm me
The next, no more

One moment I feel safe
The next, scorned

One moment I dream
The next, reality hits

One moment I am decisive
The next, ambivalent

One moment I am ok
The next, I cycle again

One moment I know I want you
The next, I am unsure...

Will this perpetuation ever become anything more?

I thought I knew you pretty well, or at least I was beginning to,
but now I'm starting to doubt if what I thought I knew was ever true.

Because the person I'm looking at is a mystery to me,
behaving exactly like the man he always said he would never be.

Maybe it was all in my head and I only imagined the best parts,
because who you actually are is breaking what's left of my heart.

You do everything in excess now, from drinking to having meaningless ***,
so maybe separating myself from you is only for the best.

A piece of me really doesn't want to let you go,
but how can I hold on to a stranger; you've become someone I don't even know.