You were never mine.
You never held me in your arms at night listening about how my day went.
Never really started up a conversation to which I had grown so accustomed to.
We never kept each other’s secrets for long, for just the two of us to hold.
You were never mine.

Oh, I wish you had held me.
On those long, lonely nights, tears streaming down my face.
In those months I had no one to turn to for my sorrows.
You were never mine.

I would have loved to hear from you. About your day.
I think I loved you. For a moment, a month, an eternity.
If only you cared instead of flying into the arms of another as soon as the opportunity came.
But then again, so did I.
But you were never mine.

I could never call you my own to whom I could confess my deepest secrets and desires.
Or to whom I put all of myself into.
We were doomed from the start.
I think I loved you, but you were never mine.

My dreams and life contrasting
in the abstract I pretend to transcend
I feel the ground collapsing
So I spark up and promise myself its godsend
Spent on the nonsense so I absolve
Then slowly revolve again
Ascending to the sky on the wings of deceit;
I cascade downward in a thousand droplets of oblivion

If I summed you up
I’d abstain from strained
refrain, from those mushy
lines that read like a hike
through a swamp. An inkwell
tipped, they pour from trite
lips and taint a masterpiece.
But you were not made
to bathe in black cliché;
you: the product of Someone’s
fantastic oration; spoken to life,
left in my sight. And I, but the
by-chance observer, who only
knows what not to say.

I used to write like I was smarter than people.
This was the ego of the sample of knowledge.

Now I write easy, because before, writing smart was the challenge, but now...




communicating  like a human seems to be the challenge.

What am I?