This is not a poem,
I really wish I could write one again.
This a sad echo,
from someone who is already dead.

I used to be better,
when that part of me was alive.
She was the one that understood my soul,
she transformed my tears in art.

But I killed her, I killed me,
and now I can't see through my tears
I'm drowning, but I can't scream.
  I'm speechless.

I forgot how to write poetry

And how a being alike to me, is much richer in the way of speech
O, how I envy, but how I want you to teach
The pride you carry upon, could be everything that’s not me
I despise it, even though it’s the one thing I want to be
I yearn to be someone, confident in their act
But with the amounts of times I sorrow, what should I expect?
I must and need to feel assurance of the others alike
I will have the same fearlessness with what you strike
The torment of grudges and the unsure, I will let go
The place I’m in now is really more like a shadow
Then it is me, o not what I was predestined for
Fears take upon me every time I speak or move
Who will I be and how many will disapprove
I beg you, instruct me how to do it; I will not be scared no more