"Poems"

12/9/2011

 It is something like writing verse

You start somewhere and end somewhere else

All the choices that exist in between

It's easy to forget them

When you see the fished product

In its perfect form

But even perfect things will grow old

And you'll have to move to something new

My love for her is not a blank page

Though ardent, empty my words remain

I wait for her to feel what I feel

I wait for her to speak my name

It really should be sent to Hell,

With all the secrets, hopes and pain,

For I know the last bite is death,

With poison that will ever remain

Unforgiven, you know I am bitter

And perfect things will grow old

My angels leave me when I cry

But I know, my friend, how you believed that suffering

Prolongs the rotting, old and dry

But for her to wail upon a self-made grave,

With a heart that beats slower with age,

I finished my dark verses this night,

If only to remind me that they aren't all

Love is like writing poetry and I

Will always resemble thee, flaw for flaw.