And even when I loved you,
I was not able to create great poetry.
Though love blinded my eyes,
my heart could not flow out.
I couldn't bleed the paper,
I couldn't give away my soul.
I just wanted to write beautifully,
a piece away from melancholy.
I needed love to write a poem
that'd speak with joy of heart.
But though my heart still bleeds,
it does not stain the page.
It flows over it and disappears,
like the words deny themselves.
Loving you brought me nothing,
nothing but pain of thoughts
that are still meaningless today
and will not find their way into
my poetry and work of dirt.
Rotting fingers scrape the ink,
it will not find itself in trash.
I'll burn it so it can't last.
I cannot stand my own poetry,
my work is meaningless and paining.
I cannot come to an understanding
with myself and my words
to make this poem work,
to make it make sense.
I want to be a poet,
but today I'm no one.
Non omnis moriar,
but I die with every part of me
that discards the page
and wastes words
that could be used
for poems of work
that would describe
something much more beautiful,
something worth writing down,
anything else than
this monotone "I,".
Self-seen poetry,
focused only on me.
I regret each stroke of my pen,
my work to see the day,
I hope my notebook burns.
Make me be forgotten,
I don't want to be reminded
of failure that had hurted
me my whole life.
So forget me and my work,
or let it sit
while I try to
picture the world
once better or once worse
And pick my beautiful lyric,
Make it be a part of me,
but don't remember me.
And let me die in peace,
as my work will not bring
anyone the joy or learn
that it's supposed to give.
My work could be something if I only tried.
God, please, let me try for once.
@dumba
Mar 29
Mar 29, 2026 at 2:28 AM UTC
And even when I loved you,
I was not able to create great poetry.
Though love blinded my eyes,
my heart could not flow out.
I couldn't bleed the paper,
I couldn't give away my soul.
I just wanted to write beautifully,
a piece away from melancholy.
I needed love to write a poem
that'd speak with joy of heart.
But though my heart still bleeds,
it does not stain the page.
It flows over it and disappears,
like the words deny themselves.
Loving you brought me nothing,
nothing but pain of thoughts
that are still meaningless today
and will not find their way into
my poetry and work of dirt.
Rotting fingers scrape the ink,
it will not find itself in trash.
I'll burn it so it can't last.
I cannot stand my own poetry,
my work is meaningless and paining.
I cannot come to an understanding
with myself and my words
to make this poem work,
to make it make sense.
I want to be a poet,
but today I'm no one.
Non omnis moriar,
but I die with every part of me
that discards the page
and wastes words
that could be used
for poems of work
that would describe
something much more beautiful,
something worth writing down,
anything else than
this monotone "I,".
Self-seen poetry,
focused only on me.
I regret each stroke of my pen,
my work to see the day,
I hope my notebook burns.
Make me be forgotten,
I don't want to be reminded
of failure that had hurted
me my whole life.
So forget me and my work,
or let it sit
while I try to
picture the world
once better or once worse
And pick my beautiful lyric,
Make it be a part of me,
but don't remember me.
And let me die in peace,
as my work will not bring
anyone the joy or learn
that it's supposed to give.
My work could be something if I only tried.
God, please, let me try for once.
@dumba
17/11/25
This piece was a scream before being remodeled, originally half of the text is in all caps, a desperate way of pouring the heart out.
I hold this poem really sentimental to me and I'll appreciate any feedback.
