a loss of words:
usually it does not come easy,
writing a script to a private performance
hidden for your eyes only.

eyes are the enemy,
one look and guilt overcomes you,
engulfing you into a swarm of
regret
doubt
emotion.

words escaping you
attached to a kite,
flying further      and further
      and        further away.

stumbling over your voice,
tripping over your tongue.
yourwordsruntogether,
they  don't  mesh  at  all.

the finale,
               the closing scene.
                                 the credits start rolling,
and you're out of time.

She was a poem he found inside an old history book.
A hidden treasure beneath all the rubble.
She was a light that filled the darkness of his mind.
A gold medal, his own personal medal.
It wasn't until she left that he knew this.
She was a pen and he was no longer her paper.
The worlds once written between them were gone.
Her silver lining would no longer show in the distance.
His light had gone out, his treasure now broken.
His medal had rusted, but he kept the poem,
He kept

he left you,
you text charlie again
"where are you my love?"
to your plea, the response is clear.
gone fishin'.
"ill be back when i'm ready,"
the harlot says
in the midst of the chaos.

to be brought back to abnormality by the sound of his insecurities leading to your own demise.
you're not crazy.
i'm not crazy.
i am not crazy.
to the mountains and skies,
my brightness and light.
to the burrows and shade,
brought out at late.
i'm questioning my peace of mind
trying to justify another's.

say it out loud in your head, in my head.