A Poet Without the Dreams

I have had ups and downs, And right now,
I'm down.

I have heard every little inspiring thing someone could say to me,
In this moment of grief,
But I never really take it to heart,
Because it never feels like they mean it.
I don't know about you,

But I'm sick of it.

I understand what I must do to keep going and make it through.
I know what my parents say, But now it feels like I'm a ghost in their way.

I can't really look outside, without thinking about my life—
What I did have and now I don't.
The love I once had no longer around.

The grief, It pulls me down.

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry
For being myself, For showing you I'm not scared.

I'm me I am I.


I can't take that back, Not now, not today.

This poem has become a lot.
I had an idea but now it's lost.

Now I'm just writing my heart, since my blood is the ink.
I know I'm not good, And I don't thrive to be,
But this is the only way I can be me.

So I'm sorry for being myself,
For being me— The one little thing.

I might just be amusing to you,
But my little tears, they shine bright.
But you wouldn't know, Because you've never seen me in light.

You only come around when it looks like I'm down,
And I only go away, To give you the peace,

The space.

So I'm sorry for what I have wrote,
For not being a gracious writer,
A magical poet.
I'm sorry for being me— A little, little thing.

Again, I'm sorry for writing like me,
A poet but without the dreams.