8 months   in a blink of an eye
8 months   of our life gone by

8 months   of love like no other
8 months   being here for one another

1 year         getting to know your heart
1 year         never wanting to be apart

8 months   me and you together
8 months   leading us to forever

you can dip your words in honey and sugarcoat your wicked tongue,
but nothing can change your rotten heart or change what you have done.

― poetry doesn't make what you did pretty

Loving you was meant to be beautiful
Loving you was meant to wrap me in a warmth
That comforted and reassured the
bottomless pit I call me


Loving you meant I had purpose
Loving you created a blanket that hid
All of the pain that comes with
Not loving myself


Loving you felt dead
Loving you would force me to pretend
That this parasite of you
Was good for me

you were ever rarely a good love
a bad love
an abusive love
a love that was never love
my first love

Lately
I don’t feel close
to poetry.

It feels elusive.
Unfamiliar.
Once it spoke to me.
But now it’s mute.

It sits back
and doesn’t look
at me.

If I call out
it doesn’t hear.

Lately poetry is
like that demon
I used to want
to reappear.

This flashing prompt
Is mocking me
The villain
In my dreams
Waking me from
A restless sleep
Making me wonder
What beauty lies ahead
Or if this day
Is just a nightmare to be had

Teasing me
Tempting me
Out of my writers block
So much so
That I have to
Write about it

The little black line
Is toying with me
Making me
Type
Edit
Delete
Like a cycle
Spinning my mind
Washing my pages
Until the words
Are nothing but memory

Or committed to memory
Depending on how many times
I’ve typed them
Trying to get past this idea
And turn it into
Something of substance
This flashing prompt
Has chained me to the screen

I scratch the idea
And start again

This vertical line
Is taunting me
Asking me what
I have Left to say
Reminding me that
I’ve said it all before
Just in a different way
Assuring me
That the world will tire
Of hearing my story
And I can only
Type so much
In a day
Week
Month
Year

This Caret
Has crushed me
Like a soldier waging war
Before I can even get a word in
Winning the battle
Unable to reach my weapon
Attempting to defend my thought process
Staring deeply I remember
That I am hopeless

This flashing prompt owns me
Keeping me up until
All hours of the night
Beating me to the punch
Whenever something feels right
Placing seeds of doubt in my mind
Making me aware
that the well
Has run dry

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.