I know you left and that was your choice
but may I just ask, do you still hear my voice?
When you read all my poems through
is it my voice reading them to you?
Are my words in your head
or to you are my words dead?

Everything I do
Is a scream for attention,
A call for validation,
A plea for someone to notice

I don't want to be told 'shoo'
Please just listen
Tell me I'm not invisible
Tell me I've done well

That's all I need- for you
To care and to say
That I matter, to give
Me congratulations

So I'm selfish- yeah, what's new?

I see metaphors from broken hearts
and wish my heart would break into
something beautiful.
I spend my time making love to pen and paper
in hopes of producing
something acceptable.
I wait at my desk for hours,
crying and trying
to purge something useful out of me.
But no matter how hard I try,
no matter how much my fingers bleed
and my heart aches
I will never be a Poe, Hemingway or Dickinson.
I'm just a fragile little girl wearing her heart not on her sleeve but on paper.
Hoping,
praying,
that will be enough.

I lost my job.
I lost control.
I lost my friends.
I lost my soul.
I lost my appetite,
My thirst.
I lost my blessings,
Found a curse.
I lost my dignity,
My pride.
I lost my heart.
I lost my mind.
I lost my vices,
Virtue too.
Nothing hurt —
Until I lost you.