It's easy to write a poem.
It's hard, however, to write a piece of originality : something where you don't fear people are reading it thinking "Where have I seen this before?".
No clichés, no copying, no integrating bits of your work and bits of others, always give credit where credit is due. Etcetera.
But that's not really what poetry is about.
I guess, in my own words and understanding of it, it's just about expression and ideas and spilling words onto pages that you could never say aloud.
I guess it comes from the abyss within yourself.
Where, in your heart, letters swim in pools of emotions waiting to be saved and salvaged.
And in your mind, they are forming in an orderly line waiting to be made sense of.
Maybe none of this makes any sense.
Or maybe it does.
I once heard the expression : "Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I've ever known."
And that's the **** truth.

Certain.
Scared.
Certain.
Open.
Certain.
Love.
Certain.
Vulnerable.
Certain.
Hurt.
Certain.
Weakened.
Certain.
Ruined.
Certain.
Broken.
Certain.
Walls.
Certain.
Distant.
Certain.
Lying.
Certain.
Left.
Certain.
Gone.
Certain?

My heart
My hopes
My fears
My memories
My mind
I lost it all.

I can no longer feel my heart beat in my chest. It's frozen in time.
I thought it was on pause, waiting for you.
But it's slowly starting to turn cold.

I have nothing to look forward to anymore.
What is my life without you?
What is LIFE with the absence of your love and light?
A life minus the very essence of you is a life I hold no interest in living.

I no longer fear darkness.
The monsters under my bed, nor the ones inside my head.
What does any of it matter anyway?
Why would anything possible phase me when I've already lost the greatest thing in my existence?

I don't even remember the crisp green colour of your eyes, nor the vulnerable velvety sound of your voice, nor the battle scars that traced your veins and made coloured splotches on your knuckles, nor the way you held me tight, nor the smell of your musky scent that smelt like patchouli and home, nor the way you held me when we would say goodbye, nor the way you promised me it will never really be goodbye.

I can't ******* think straight. It is 9:59 pm on Christmas Eve, eve, and you're flooding my mind and I can feel simultaneously both everything and nothing.

I don't know anything anymore.

I don't know who I am or who I was or who I want to be.

But I ******* love you and I ******* miss you.