Rarely do my poems capture,
the beauty of nature,
a moment or metaphor,
for it's beauty.
The shining frost,
on a chilly morning,
how your breath fogs in the crystalized air,
As frost encases the earth.
Rarely do I tell how eyes gleam,
And smiles grow warm,
Because I speak in stories.
I tell tales through my words,
explaining emotions to my blind heart,
so it can understand how it feels,
And speaking in sobs that roll off my tongue,
much like tears flowing from one's cheeks.
Because I speak in stories,
I have forgotten the beauty of fleeting moments.
of seconds,
of scenes,
of life and earth both.
I write in order to heal my wounds,
to better grasp myself.
To tell myself that I still exist,
when I am no more than an empty shell.
But I have lost the beauty.
I have forgotten the truth,
of how much I love poetry.
And why I adore it so.