I’m burnt out on love I’ve never known,
On writing feelings not my own.
I carve out passion with my pen,
But never feel it back again.
I craft the lines, I play the part,
But there’s no pulse behind this heart.
I’ve written dreams, I’ve forged desire,
Yet here I stand, without the fire.
I talk of love, of joy, of touch,
But none of it’s been mine—not much.
I pour out tenderness, pretend,
But every poem’s just pretend.
I’m sick of songs I’ve never sung,
Of love that only lives in tongue.
I stitch together words for show,
But it’s a hollow act, I know.
What’s love to me but someone else’s?
Their highs, their lows, their endless guesses.
I’ve written their bliss, their heartbreak too,
But none of it has felt like truth.
I’ve no muse waiting, no one’s arms,
No gentle warmth, no lasting charms.
I speak of love, but know it not,
And that’s the burn that I forgot.
The well is dry, the ink is thin
I can’t keep writing what’s not within.
I’m burnt out, lost, and all alone,
Tired of a love that’s never grown.
So let the paper stay untouched,
I’ve given love what love’s not touched.
No poems left to fake, to fake
It’s emptiness I can’t unmake.
