Life As A Poet.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Alone, indeed.

Submitted: November 12, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 12, 2011




I can't write.

This emotion is too complex to convey.

With you out of sight,

There isn't an easy way.


To express my emotions,

and how I truly feel.

This motion,

is becoming so real.


Letting my mind wander.

It always leads back to you.

As I sit and ponder,

you haven't a single clue.


I am hurt on the inside,

and my heart is broken.

To sit here and cry,

with no words spoken.


This pen and paper,

are all I know.

Subconciously expressing,

continuious growth.

This is too depressing,

but I can't let it show.


I will sit here and write,

until the day,

I wither up and die.

There isn't any other way,

I know how to live my life.


No matter,

how bad I'm hurt,

or what you say.

I know this paper,

won't leave me astray.


Writing is what I have,

and it will never leave my side.

Answering my questions,

healing the scabs.

Writing is here,

to hold me as I cry.


My life, and my soul,

are in this.

No matter how cold,

or how treacherous the abyss,

I do this,

without a single miss.


Whenever I,

need to cry,

or reflect my life,

or I feel as if I want to die.

This pen will always stay true,

of expressing my emotions to you.


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