I tore all the pages I wrote of you
out of my poetry book.
Bundled them up into tiny balls
as I couldn’t stand to look
at the words that I had written
back when I still believed in us.
And now my heart lies broken
all my feelings ground to dust.
The words I used to describe you,
describe us, they would all flow
with ease like rain from heaven
to the scorched earth far below.
Into the fire I feed them,
pages ripped, lost and forlorn
the words upon them mock me
and I’m drowning in their scorn.
I will again fill pages,
upon pages with my words…
But not right now, ’cause as you left
my voice became unheard.
And I will need to figure out
who, what, yes, when and why
to refill my life with poetry –
relight the magic of the skies.
So do not ask me to read to you
the stories of the past,
for they are merely memories
and weren’t made to last!
Some of those words still linger
and echo through my mind
but do not make me recite them,
I beg you, please be kind!
I’m having one of those ‘I’ll do anything not to have to do what I’m supposed to be doing’ mornings, and this was written (in haste) for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and their Every Day I Write The Book challenge. Most of what I write remains unread and un-recited, so I’ve never really had the problem of falling out of love with it, but if I go back through the (so not up to date) ‘Vintage Bubbles‘ on this blog I know I will run into poems written that I would rather not have writ… Sometimes having a memory that’s no longer so keen is a good thing.