A poem I wrote on my blog about a guy who used to frequent my blog before we went our separate ways.
If I could simplify a feeling,
I would write out every word
and make emotions easy reading
for people who act like cowards.
If a pencil could stitch me,
I would write until I'm whole
but no such thing could ever be,
leaving me to mourn what you stole.
But what my writing cannot heal,
I use to my advantage yet,
though you think I do not feel,
I do and in fiction I show my regret.
There is a novel for every moment,
each telling a story waiting to be seen,
but in my imaginations I lament
ever thinking, "What might have been."