Did I waste my life?
In waiting for something?
Or anything that can warm my cold feet.

Did I lose a part of my life?
In taking a step back.
Did I manage my self more than the love I crave?

Nothing change, I am not as proactive
and as eager to find that warmth?
Perhaps, I never care from the start.

Poetry is a hard life. Writing is a hard life. Art, in any way, shape or form is a hard life. But we do it because we feel it in our souls. We might not necessarily be good at it. It might not be able to earn us a living, and all the words in our heart may threaten to tear us apart, or to overflow and drown the world. It may seem like too much of a burden, to have the power of the pen, to feel like you're drifting out on an ocean of emotions that flicker so quickly past you don't have time to grasp it and put it on paper, thoughts and feelings too beautiful to ever be captured by words. And so many times we want to walk away, to stop, to give up. But I think what makes it worth it isn't the result. It doesn't matter what happens in the end. Whether the words are clumsy or not. Whether anybody publishes it or not. Whether or not anyone else approves, even. It doesn't matter in the end. What matters is the journey. And honestly, for people like us? The journey itself is enough.

Be patient with me
I’m still a work in progress

Somedays I seem put together
But that paint’s not dry just yet

One day I’ll get this right
I’m sorry

We burned for a moment, then you pulled away,
Returned to the dance where your lies led the way.
What I called love, you twisted to your cruel charade—
You left me once more, and still, I stayed.
I clung to the echoes of your bitter refrain,
Masked you as breath, though you brought only pain.

To you, I was a ghost adrift in your dream,
A shadow that whispered where nothing's as it seems.
I don’t miss you now, nor dwell on your face,
But I wonder—what thrill did you find in this chase?
Was hurting me easy, a means to an end,
Or did you believe the lies you pretended to send?

I waited in darkness, a flame nearly gone,
Yet found in the ashes the will to move on.
Now you are the one who’s lost in the night,
Chasing my shadow, lamenting your plight.
You cry, "How could you turn and leave me this way?"
But the hurt you inflicted has led you astray.

Did it ease your own torment, or calm your regret?
Was it solace you sought, or something darker yet?
For all of your leaving, and all of my trust,
What did you gain by grinding me to dust?

Saying goodbye
To someone you love
Is like reading the final page
Of an amazing book.

As the last chapter ends
You begin to notice
Just how beautiful
And perfect
The plot always was.  

You appreciate the joy
And even the pain
As you read and thumb
Through every page.

Finally understanding
The moral of the story,
You realize you've reached
The end of this journey.

Although the last sentence  
Is the most difficult to read
Another great book awaits
Once you turn the final page.

Eventually you may stumble
Upon yet another great find.
Or maybe you'll return
To the book you left behind.

You may just discover
Once all is said and done
That this particular book  
Was your favorite story
All along.