You were a poem embedded in my heart,
During those first days of spring,
It was still midnight,
When the words came unto me,
Desiring stay,
In scripts and Hearts.
I fell in love with how you became,
You, so beautifully expressed,
Were, but a consummate perfection,
How odd it is that Poets,
Easily fall,
Out of Love with their scripts.
I tell you: with scintilla, I've stayed long nights,
Jotting words, but they end up Foul.
I have aquired a scence of easily falling out of love with my poems, or rather who I am...I only ask that someone helps me regain my passion and love for writting...there is nothing else
