Have I run out like ink from a pen?
Told the last of stories spun with sorrow
Thrown away and not refilled
Like everything so easier
Replaced instead of mended
Such a waste
Sometimes it feels or must be like a fallen tree
Burned or even possibly repurposed
Either way there’s burning cutting
Some sort of reshaping like the table
Passed down for generations
Profit by pain
Night by night a soothing slumber evades me
Token of the attitude to forgive
Which also includes forgetting
Not to mention letting go, which I know
Cuts such contradiction in my soul
I’m bearing
Sometimes I waste time and cut some lines
By wishing entertaining, even hoping
Someday, somehow, we might try again
You be you and I be me and both of us
Will somehow change, but I know better
Hope is vain
Tempting fate to torment now no longer
Something so impossible like us meet again
So absurd like all the little lines
Manifesting boldly on my skin
But never will, and only secretly be bedded
On my heart
Somehow fear of losing my own image
Social circle counselors and groups
I would be admitted for such sin
And even though mere words upon a page
Capture all my rage, I hope they’ll be forgotten
Like true joy
Not that I can’t have it with you
Never missed on joy before we met
But I cannot forget when I have
Almost everything to make me happy
I’ll move but leave behind old salty joy
And never cry
Oh, how much I want to, surely such release
Would grant some solace
I’m so shocked and trapped in unbelief
I hardly notice how I feel
With numbing side effects from recent tales
Written meanly
But I won’t throw away this pen
Somehow, it reminds of something holy
Two souls intertwined means so much to me
Keep you in the facets of my being
Burning like a thousand tall lit candles
Lighting the cathedral of my heart