Just another poem.
Is this how the lonely deal with loneliness?
Line after line of broken rhyme,
Our amatuer writings feebly portray
Our feelings and our thoughts and our lives.
As we try to make sense of life and love:
The tears we cry, the way we die;
Why life throws Hell at us
In the shape of angels.
Blind with love, the bard can't see
His love just isn't shared.
But still he'll love, 'til day of death
The hellish angel, his greatest friend.
So full of feeling:
Love of her, hate of love.
Every day his heart will break
At catching sight of love again,
And so he'll jot it down in verse
To try to mend his twisted view.
He doesn't know what good it does
To write it down on paper.
But he thinks it helps to tell someone
Even if it's only air.