I already miss you.
Who can blame the poet for that?
no matter how passionate I am about being mature,
there will always be
that little child in me
that wants so badly
to yell and to scream
because you left me here.

I know you had to, I don't blame
you, my love, for that, but I
do have a childish desire to cling.
It's not something I do, that's a childish thing
to get used to doing. No Thanks, I'm no child.
A Man takes things in stride, and I got out of that car
confidently, and stood ***** and tall
though the inner me crumbled like so many
walls we broke down in ourselves this last week.

It's so easy to write poetry like this.
I remember high school,
when we'd all write angsty poetry with
dark titles and
strange vocabulary words we'd seen
in books we didn't understand.

but Who can blame the poet for that?

I already miss you but I already love you.
It's not like last time when I loved you and had you not,
left to my own devices, to watch you suffer
at the hands of someone who didn't know true love.

This isn't my best poetry, it's only a first draft.
but that's what you get.
I want you to have what I am, unfiltered
un-manipulated
unedited.

It's hard living this way, but I welcome it like Saturday Afternoon
and the delights it holds for us all
in order to await the coming of the dawn after a storm in the night.
I refuse to ever, ever fall.

I miss you my Love. I wish you were here...
Who can blame a poet for that?