His words,
once a celebration of love,
poetic affection,
written from the deepest
part of his heart
for her,
are now
nothing more than
creased and torn
pages of empty verses
shoved in the back pocket
of his worn out jeans
Ink bleeding between
the lines of a man
who believed he mattered,
only to find that he is
as insignificant
as his writings,
a forgotten poet,
a dried up pen in hand,
scratching sad poetry
on a lonely sidewalk
between the cracks of his life,
etchings of who he once was.
-J
