I can’t write like other poets,
each closest word I can think of,
is merely a cough in a dying body.
I wish I could write of reluctance,
of binding pungent chains tied to a life,
I wish I could write about pretty eyes
and the way they look like sapphires
tossed into a river.
I wish I was more of a poet than I claim to be,
I wish I could write with an aim to leave
behind a spectre of gleam and grim,
but I can’t.
All I know are broken hearts,
and writing this alone is ripping me apart,
because the roses that sat on the field,
is always sweetest when they’re the furthest.
The blue sky cuddles me inside it’s orb,
but I absorb enough light to know-
that no matter how much sunshine I receive,
you still won’t be able to see me.