What if I wrote a poem and none of it rhymed, the pain and hurt couldn't flow from my brain down my arm and onto the page, what if I couldn't express the sorrow I felt and all that spilled out were words, but words that didn't capture what it is to live and die inside every day.
And sleep the brother of death escapes me so the last retreat is gone and all that's left are thoughts, churning and replaying, hoping that in the end there'll be a different final outcome
What if one day I looked at you and after all these years you didn't know me and all the things we held close and shared were shattered, scattered on the ragged wind that rips through this bleak town.
Would there be a glimmer of recognition in your eye? A faint reminder, not of what I was but what I could be, what you hoped I would be?
So can love live inside, rattling in this empty shell? If not love then what? I was thinking back today remembering what it was like to be a kid, how did we let them do this to us? How did we let this happen to ourselves? Dreams burn, funeral pyres, cremated rising to the sky, glowing then gone.
What if I wrote a poem and no one cared, walking by the untouchable, life is hard, I don't know your pain, but I made you feel mine, I'll listen now, I have come to the end, It's out of my hands, I like it that way.