you killed my flower

57. what is the meaning of it all?

I feel like
most of the time
my poems are just
scattered words.

Incoherent thoughts scrawled
on a page.
Broken and hollow,
like the promises you made.

Every breaking wave
of tears smudges a remark
I've written.

My vision is blurred as I recall the things you said.
Writing is the release.

A blind man can write of his sorrows,
as can I..
With my blurry vision and red
wrists.

Darling, I'm wistful for your toxic embrace,
and poison lips.
Just as the blind man is nostalgic for
his days filled with
color.

How many of us hide
our misery, agony, or loneliness
with an
"I'm fine"
Like its no big deal?

How many of us hide
our scars
with long sleeves,
scratching at the scabs
like its no big deal?

Tired, and alone,
everyone feels
at some point
in this useless thing called life.

I suppose my poetry is just
scattered words,
and incoherent thoughts.

But then again,
so is my life.