Words can no longer
express the passion,
the emotion,
that I feel...
each and every day.
The stories I write,
with broken hands;
ideas that do not exist,
crafted from a wet sand,
and molded by bloodied fists.
The poetry that bleeds
from my open wounds,
the words I read
over and over,
inside this hollow room.
Forcing my dreams to breathe,
before their eventual death.
I fear that they, too,
shall bleed,
and all the rest.
It is a burden,
to create, to craft,
and to shape things
into an existing
aftermath.
Though, this may be true,
it is also a rather warming gift.
To cherish, and to love,
just as how I felt for you...
as you allowed for me to live.
You are gone, now. And so am I.
Memories, thrown into outer space,
that compel me to wonder why...
the lost ideas, and empty thoughts;
why they never found their place.
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