to me,
you are
an art

                              to you,
                              I was
                              a tragedy

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

A broken temple
Inside my head
where one used to seek refuge
but now it is futile

My brain keeps churning thoughts
too much to process
I made mistakes
unforgivable ones I suppose

They keep saying things will improve
that I am strong
To stand proud
One day the pain will end

Right now I am nothing
Just a lowly specimen
Insignificant
Now I am ready to go

You call me a believer,
but you haven't heard my dream

You call me a believer,
because with pity you watch me scream

You tell me to speak my truth,
because I have "important" things to say

Funny, wasn't it you?
that ignored me yesterday