I don't really write poetry
I only spill my thoughts across the page
In a way that looks pretty.
At least I'm honest.

I heard about another tragedy today,
Turned on the TV to hear about hot yet another man [or three]
got his hands on a gun
that should have never been his.

12 people injured, 2 in critical condition
one of them no more than ten years old.
Never saw it coming on today of all days.
After all, they were gathered to celebrate some of the most amazing people.

I began to feel ill,
my stomach began to ache
and my head began to throb.
As if my body was trying to reject the cruelness of this world.

I think I'm finally moving on from you.
I can hear our song on the radio,
and not burst into uncontrollable tears.
[but the achy is still in my chest]

I think I'm finally getting better.
I can see you with someone else,
and not hate her immediately.
[but I still feel slightly nauseous]

I think I'm finally getting over you.
I can look at old pictures,
without wanting to burn them.
[but sometimes I still shed a tear or two]

I don't miss you anymore.
[but I miss what we had]

Sometimes I still see you
on the street
or in my dreams.

My, how you've changed
from that innocent
little girl.

Gone and changed your whole story
to impress
and repress.

It makes me want to scream,
"I know who you are
who you really are!"

But I don't,
Because you've already
forgotten me.