I wanted to write a poem
but the tips of my fingers
froze on impact and touched nothing
but the memories you left on my skin.
My mind was tainted by the scars
left behind from the prison that is my mind.
I am kind hearted and gentle
but the tragedy that is life
feeds off my mentality
like the waves feed off the wind
And I can't help but feel like
i'm drowning in the chaos
that has invaded my mind
So I turn cold and emotionless.

The soft kisses from your resin stained lips
are the only bliss I have ever known.
Your kind words and gentle nature
the only love i've ever been shown.
Writers remorse is rekindled with tragedy
so what am I supposed to write
when the remorse turns to rebellion
and my heart's fire ignites with a passion
I never knew I possessed.
Nevertheless, I am content
so how are my fingers
going to consent to writing solemnly
when I don't think I have it in me.
I am happy,
and as a writer
that will be the death of me.