I am used to these hands

Causing devastation

With only the words at my fingertips.


But ever so often,

There comes a time

When every inferno

Loses momentum

And dies out.


For so long I've lived

As though nothing mattered:

A life of total apathy.


But like all wandering souls,

Searching for meaning

Or a philosophy worth believing:

Like the bible, or a quiet

Wallflower


Have you ever seen such

A thing like this stunning wallflower

Barely blooming?


Its a sight that I

Have spent a lifetime searching for.

If it takes yet another, I hope

To watch the wallflower

Bloom.

I never wrote you that poem.
Just another broken promise
I'm fulfilling too late.
I don't write to you anymore
Either, not because you don't
Cross my mind,
But because you know the words
Before they are written.

I miss you. I miss
Our cigarette breaks that last
For hours or until we didn't have
Any left. I remember
The thunder of our feet
As we raced across the parking lot
Like kids because we could.

I remember the three a.m. phone call
Telling me there had been
An accident and that you didn't
Make it.

I may not write to you anymore.
But your memory
will never leave me.
So here it is.
The poem I promised you.
Three years too late.

But thats okay,
Because I know wherever you are..
You heard this
Before I did.