after reading thousands of pages dipped in love
words formed from bleeding ink yet it isn't enough
for me to formulate something of my own
all these fearsome feelings i wish to set in stone
the rise in my pulse on seeing him, the smile that touches my lips
the way he looks at me from far, his hand in mine- grazing my fingers tips
i wish i could tell you how this is making my mind churn
the want i feel for him and how this desire makes me burn
but i belive the hopeless romantic in me took it's last breath
and i killed it while it laid on it's death bed
so i stay with it's memories and corpse
suffering day and night with my writer's block
nothing inspires me anymore
maybe filling in the blanks satisfies the core?
so i believe that the best poems spring from the worst heartbreaks
beacuse being in love isn't what that makes
me pick my pen up and write my heart down
to make my poetry the talk of the town!