I've found the strongest poems to be the product of
a purge of emotions that reign so ******* the heart that they
pull at the fingers, draining energy from the tips
as every word falls onto the paper,
relentlessly.

I've felt the hollow shatter of a thousand nights of heartbreak,
the kind that only poetry can seem to glue back together
even if temporarily.
The words on the page, unfiltered
broadcast thoughts of late summer days and first loves,
first losses,
our wrists ache with rememberence as our hearts empty out.

We lose what we thought we still held to our souls
as the sentences unfold and we are finally able to articulate
what it means to be without,
what it means to be empty.
Those lines are but udnerstanding, full of compassion that we have still, hidden away in our hearts for the day they start beating again.


Why are the richest of poems products of the poorest of days,
and why can I write nothing anymore
as my heart feels full, for once, again?