If I could still write poetry-
I'd write about how you betrayed me.
I'd make it a lyrical nursery
That gently cradled all my insecurities.
They'd bounce around from wave to wave,
Like an ominous symphony.
Synomous to love,
yet fueled by defeat.
If I could still write poetry.
I'd write about being second best,
I'd write about loosing you, and
Above all else- loosing rest.
If I could somehow still write-
Maybe this feeling would flee.
Perhaps then I could show you.
Perhaps then you could see.