I left myself for dead, an empty case,

While I dreamt of times long gone, long forgot.

I spent a cold, dark month suffocating,

A long month of crushing, of breathlessness.

I had lost my heart forever, I thought.

Awake was suffering; alertness, pain,

So I drowned myself in dreaming and sleep,

And closed my eyes to the world;

I am not an artist for no reason at all,

So I think this art, this time, I’ll keep.

I buried your beloved name in ink,

Drowned every perfect letter in black,

Washed the smudged remains down the sink,

And dried my pen at the small of my back.

I was empty once; still am, to this day.

I once thought myself resigned, but I’ll try

To fill myself up again, anyway.

I’ll start to heal myself with music,

Surround myself in a melodic rain

Of sultry notes and minor keys.

I’ll play a stream, song after song,

And let each one soothe the pain.

I still feel like I’m just an empty shell,

Like if you hit me, I would sound hollow

And I’ve lost my heart forever, I think,

But it doesn’t mean I have to be empty,

Even if I spill every time I blink.

I finally filled up the empty black well,

Picked up the pen, and dipped it in ink

Today I started to write, once more.

Like finding a piece of myself I’d lost,

It ran me aground, and I ran ashore.

Like my footprints filling in with sand,

I don’t want to be empty anymore,

So I’ll start filling myself up again.

Author guidance for This poem

.

updated Jul 23 '10 by Lyre