Vines

I think of the most hauntingly beautiful and sad lines,

But I don’t allow myself to write them,

They twist and twirl within the delicate nerves of my heart, like vines,

For I don’t want the world to know of the mayhem

that breaks out in my head every now and then,

Now that you’re no longer here whispering sweet nothings,

There is no rest for my pen,

Burdened with my deepest of feelings.