If I'm not with them, I'm in my study.
I write words that bleed into pages through pages.
I sleep in my thoughts and talk in my mind.
I do not dare share my words out loud,
For if I did, I would not be a poet no more.
I'll lie to my heart to believe that I will stay with them.
Even if the moment shared is 3 minutes long.
I'll pour every last ounce of my heart and soul,
So that the ink I use is only seen by you.
And I may be remotely obsessed with the eyes that travel so far out into the room.
My study is never one room, enclosed to all.
Outside on the cold bench,
By the pond
Or on a blue bus.
I am the poet that sits in his study to mourn.
About the past lovers lost and present sorrows that collapse.
YOU ARE READING
Poems and Unsent Letters
PoetryI often write little poems and letters here and there, I thought I'd bring them out for a walk to see the world, cuz they're just sitting in my notes app gathering digital dust. DO NOT REPOST.
