Are you still worth my every waking moment?
You used to be my saving grace, my salvation, my atonement.
Now it seems like every ounce of love you had for me has been replaced with hate,
And so I wonder: is every wishful dream of you a waste?
I swear that love (and lack thereof) need not define me
Because I find my heart and lovesick mind confining...
God, remind me of the days I wrote for reasons other than emotion
For something like the clouds, an iron fence, or even for the ocean.
I used to say I’d never write a love poem, not for you or anyone.
But now I’ve nothing left to focus on, seeing how my heart has come undone.
For once upon a time, love was something beautiful and blurred
Not intended to be reckoned with or outlined by my simple human words.
Working on getting out of this love-centered poetry rut. I ought to write on things more meaningful.