Once I wrote a poem about you
but that'd be wrong would it be?
I would a gazillion poems about you
my precious words were scattered around the universe
in the form of some ****** love poems
for a boy that didn't even care
that I spent my life writing and writing
and then it all fell apart, and suddenly,
the only words were about you

I made excuses and I made jokes
just a stupid teenager with a silly crush
but it felt so much more than that,
and I thought you agreed.

but here am I again,
wasting those words I need on you
because I'll never quite loose the sight of your face
or the way you talked about yourself,
when I found out how burnt and bruised you were.

This is another love poem,
with no meaning except if your eyes ever
glance across this page
perhaps you'll know the truth
about the words I've scattered into the universe
about you.