It's such a overused word.

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)

I was unhappy
and I know you felt it.
Because one day
with no warning,
you said goodbye.

Without looking back,
you just left me
on the side of the road.
With a shattered heart
and broken dreams.

Your last words to me
still ring in my ears,
before I go to sleep at night
and the moment I wake up.

"I can't stay.
Because if I do,
you'll walk away.
If there's one thing
I've learned in life,
it's to leave
before you get left."

Red were the roses, the ones I left on your casket,
Orange were the leaves, the ones in your tree,
Yellow were the bruises, the ones that covered you head-to-toe,
Green were the stains, the ones left on the hems of your jeans,
Blue were your lips, the day you were found in your noose,
Indigo was the night sky, that night that you died,
Violet was that bruise, the one you wore around your neck