I once had a phone...
it was an IPhone 6.
Worthless to many,
but to me,
nothing
could have bought
that bank of emotion.
To part with it was
to part with some of me.
I am in no way a phone addict,
it just was full of precious bytes,
these 64 billion bytes described me.
The vehement texts, sent with wet eyes.
The entertaining games, played frequently.
The photos of friends and places held dear.
The contact of whom I am too shy to speak to.
And most importantly,
yet saddest of all...
the thousands of poems.
The stories of my doubtless fury,
my love for the pocket knife,
the yearn for another ****** line,
the sadness of another failed day,
the crushing expectations,
and the love I still feel.
The stories that pulled me from depression,
the stories that listened when nobody else would,
the stories that only I will ever have seen.
Even though it's fried silicon chip works no more,
I keep it still, not willing to let go.
So many things, lost forever,
all these things only I am to ever know.
Oh yes. classic 16 Y.O. of me to write about my broken phone. I started writing poetry in February, and I would write tens of poems a day.
