I wish I could write poetry, cause I'd write it all about you. But you're not mine to write about anymore so now I don't have a clue...

Anymore.

Random words laced with emotion. Like silver lined clouds, sprawled across a page. Anger and rage bound together with hope and love take the stage.
Which won't hold any meaning anymore so I shan't even bother.

Well, why not? I'll give it a go.

Whilst I reminice the best of times. Where unrequited feelings were a distant memory, but now they don't seem so distant anymore I find.

Where my thoughts are confined, wrapped in vines so tight it's hard to confide.

These Thoughts... They rest upon my shoulder, with the weight of a thousand boulders. Yet I present to you this story, this allegory, as delicate as a dove, and as pure as it's feathers.

A lover's Peril is hard... for I am soft. An antithesis of sorts, but the feeling of pain is making me stronger.

For each time I find a picture, or a hand written letter is like stepping on a land mine. The shrapnel of memories dig deep in the battle line, yet I'll soldier on and look at every picture. Redefine... that loves not lost because I'll keep in touch with the best of times.

Where do I draw the line? I ask myself.... When the sweet tune fades away from the chorus line, I tell myself... When the lonely path winds from a jagged beat, to a single straight line, I tell myself. Both the end and the starting line.

Your not mine anymore, and I still don't have a clue. How a lover's peril fares or simply, what to do. But you remain at heart however, and that part is true. Which is more than enough, So I think I'll continue.