He walked out on himself,
Left his book half-finished,
Buried deep within his shelf,
His skin burnt down to thinnest.
The pen was always his escape,
Then was it the pen, the paper or the reader
That made him forsake his escape?
The creator inked through its remaining life,
The vessel consoled the words under all eyes,
The receiver breathed meaning into the words,
Then who was it that discerns?
But...
What was his story...?
Was he reciting it...?
Or was it reciting him...?
Is he returning for his glory...?

You loved me, I loved you.
For me, it was special.
But for you, just a moment—
Forgotten with time.

For me, you were my future.
But for you, I was just a friend to play tricks.

For me, you became my everything.
But for you,
I was just… a friend.

For me, it was real.
But you told,
It was my misconception!

She mourned her loss
Day and night and
Her love for him a burning light and
Now buried deep beneath the sod
And gone forever now
He sleeps beloved of God.

You're not the kind of flower
People pluck and put into their hair
You're the kind of flower
People can’t bring themselves to pluck
And instead water it with their water bottle
A flower that deserves to bloom
And grow