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We've all done it.
We've had an idea for a poem
And picked out words
But the words didn't fit
Into our idea.
But they formed something else
And we liked the shape
So we expanded the idea
Chosen by the words
That we chose.
And at the end
We sign our names
And call it our idea,
Our pride and joy,
This poem we didn't mean to write.
And when that happens
Are you the author
Or did the words write you?
Hello my dear
It's me.
I'm you,
The one you gave your future to.
Maybe you thought
By now I'd be dead,
I know that you always saw darkness ahead.
I wish I could help
I wish I could say
The pain that you're feeling
Will all go away.
But I'm thankful to you
That you decided to stay,
And for all that you've done
I can never repay.
I hate the look and smell of you
The smile on your face.
The softness of your touch
The warmth of your embrace.
I hate the voice you sing with
It makes me want to cry
I hate the way I feel for you
I hate you said goodbye.
Steel is tempered in burning heat,
Made hard and strong through fire.
But flesh will burn and crack and die
When put upon the pyre.

Steel is ground and whet and honed,
Sharpened on a jagged stone.
But if you touch the grinding wheel,
Your skin is stripped down to the bone.

Steel is hammered hard and long
To give it form and shape.
But any part of me, when crushed,
Will only bruise and break.

This crucible of fire and pain
Is supposed to make us strong.
But you and I aren’t made of steel,
And we can’t last for long.
It's a cycle
Like night and day
A pill in the morning
A pull in the evening
And really
It's not that bad.
A void.
It leaves
A void
In me.
She entered my heart like an icicle
Then melted away
Leaving only the wound behind.
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