The Words Left Unsaid-Poems

Fantasy

in my head you were perfect

you would sweep me off my feet, carrying me away to an imaginary Eden

but that never happened

so with ink on my hands and blood on my pen, i wrote a story

i had always intended it to be bitter and angry

but the end wasn't as cold and alone as i thought it would be

it was like the story i wrote was less of a story and more of a vent

and the end was as desperate for joy as i was

and for a while, happy endings were the only thing i could write

even though i despised each one

Does this even count as poetry?