What is simple in the midst of the night,
Is never easy by sunrise.

Doesn’t that question your heart to know;
Whether the sun is capable of bleaching you clear of all passion?

This was supposed to be a poem;
But I don’t feel so good anymore.

This was supposed to be a “Dear Diary” entry;
But there is nothing dear about this entry

This was supposed to be a rationale about love;
But there is nothing rational about love.

This was supposed to be a motivational speech;
But the audience of my surroundings portray an ambiance of apathy.

This was supposed to be a farewell letter;
But my blood-pumping ***** cannot orchestrate a declaration of adieu.

This was supposed to be a livid rant;
But I cannot pinpoint the suitable syllables that have the strength to impale you such as a bullet.

This was supposed to be a love letter;
But I am not capable of fabricating words to exhilarate your mortalness.

This was supposed to be a poem;
But instead, it is a 3:48am compilation of my most vulnerable thoughts.

And I question;
At what age did I lose my compassion?
When did my smile become so brittle?
When did I become so bitter…?
So brash?
-Z.H.