The pencil that you hold,
tells the stories you told,
the memories we made,
in this paper where its laid.
Your hands moves on the canvas,
where the art you made can last,
but our love has passed,
and we know it didn't last.
My love was only in paper,
something you can save for later,
but my patience is wearing thin,
my anger is boiling to the brim.
The lead of a pencil can run out like water,
The dye of an acrylic can dust over,
The ink of a fountain pen can be covered,
but my memories of you will last forever.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryJust a bunch of poems filled by my thoughts and memories that I somehow made into a written version.
