I can't be a poet anymore.


pen.lines down the insides of these thoughts
that I'd die to call mine again.
I'm shaking in my metaphorical boots
only my hands are frozen to the times my mind
won't let me forget.

I hate nostalgia. but I long to remember.
and ink.stained memories make me wince
I can't write disasters my entire life.

and never expect to crumble.



the tears on this page are more distinguishable
than the words I try to form.
and my affliction leads to nothing but
[heartache] in the end.

my pen screams what my mouth won't.
and I bleed myself onto these fucking pages
or at least.

I used to.


poetic-suicide. is what I used to call this.
now I call it sanity.
and I love peace too much
.
to hold on to this pen.

If you [Log In] as a member you can discuss this work with others