Not enough verses.
Not enough rhymes.
Not enough comments
Not enough likes.
Delete. delete. Delete.
The words I prided myself in
That won no awards
That were not good enough
To be heard.
Delete. delete. Delete.
Embarrassing thoughts
Of a younger me.
A silly child
Is now all I see.
But clearly
I'm more lost now
Than I was then
And maybe that angers me.
Delete. delete. Delete.
Will I write again?
Probably not.
I've lost my passion.
My words only rot.
They can no longer shine
Or comfort me.
Delete. delete. Delete.
It may be selfish
Maybe somebody saw
And felt something,
Anything at all.
Anger, joy, static, relief.
Though I'm sure that's
Not the case with me.
Delete. delete. Delete.
It's over.
Done.
Been and gone.
Me.
And my time with
Poetry.
And here I am,
Pressing on repeat,
Delete. delete. Delete.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 5:48 AM UTC
Not enough verses.
Not enough rhymes.
Not enough comments
Not enough likes.
Delete. delete. Delete.
The words I prided myself in
That won no awards
That were not good enough
To be heard.
Delete. delete. Delete.
Embarrassing thoughts
Of a younger me.
A silly child
Is now all I see.
But clearly
I'm more lost now
Than I was then
And maybe that angers me.
Delete. delete. Delete.
Will I write again?
Probably not.
I've lost my passion.
My words only rot.
They can no longer shine
Or comfort me.
Delete. delete. Delete.
It may be selfish
Maybe somebody saw
And felt something,
Anything at all.
Anger, joy, static, relief.
Though I'm sure that's
Not the case with me.
Delete. delete. Delete.
It's over.
Done.
Been and gone.
Me.
And my time with
Poetry.
And here I am,
Pressing on repeat,
Delete. delete. Delete.
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