A paper, a ball pen, a writer’s phrases.
A hand that could write, a mind that could think.
Words that should rhyme.
Words about my whine.
This is a poet’s lost poem
That lacks meaning and good rhyming.
That lacks wisdom and effort in writing.
A poet’s poem that is only about his whining.
He lost his words for I lost her, my only poem.
The only reason of living for a poet.
My only reason to breath, my only reason to write.
But she vanished, she left, I’ll never see her light.
From her eyes, her two little eyes.
They are so sparkly, those damn eyes.
Her hair that’s so fragrant even its frizzy.
To her lips and her smile, oh it kills me.
Her fingernails that are so small and her fingers that fits to mine.
The hands that holds my heart and the arms that I could dive.
The waist that I could wrap, the legs where I can lay, you’re a thin sized yet my whole world.
Without you I couldn’t live, I’m like a running car without a road.
But I am a poet without his poem.
A car without its way home.
A car that can’t go on.
Is writing this to ease his pain, to move on.
They say the best way to get over a woman is to turn her into a literature, right?
That I should turn into a literate person. Then should I learn how to read and write?
Should I learn how to read the lines or should I learn how to write what is wrong?
Or maybe should I just get over and accept that I should be alone?
I am alone, from the very start.
From the very first time I had kissed you.
From the moment I held you.
I knew that I shouldn’t start.
And then from these lines I’ll start our departure.
I’ll be a literate that will turn you into a literature.
I’ll turn you to a story from being a riddle.
A riddle that will be a history of my great unfortunate battle.
They say to be or not to be is a question, yet I think that it’s an answer.
To be or not to be, to swear or not to swear.
They say it is a question, but for me it is a choice.
A choice to be a fool or not to be a fool.
But I chose you, I chose to be a fool.
A fool that fell in love with you.
A fool who’s willing to be with you.
It is surely foolish choice but, I chose to be the fool.
I chose to swear to the moon and sky to you.
I swear to give my all, myself as a whole.
Pride, honesty and time I gave it to you.
Trust, love? I gave it all to you.
Yet giving it all is such a waste.
That I wished all our memories will be gone, be erased.
For such sacrifices all I wish was happiness.
For such all I had was a little happiness.
Our memories is all that I cherish.
My memories of you that I want to vanish.
Yet for giving this poet a horrible and useful lesson.
On behalf of my wasted heart I thank you for that reason.
A poem with great meaning yet less rhyme.
A poem that is great to read but not to write.
A poem that keeps the poet to live.
A woman turned into a literature, a painful one to read.
Lastly I realized that this is no poem at all.
All the lines are loose and at fault.
But again this is it, my lost poem.
Oh! It’s not. Once again this is it my last poem.
