Poetry, Word, Writing

This Poet’s Angst

I don’t have words tonight,
Not adequate words, anyway.

I have cautioned words.
Quiet words.
Words that peek out of my heart,
Look around to make sure no one is reading, then
Tip-toe quickly onto the page.

Words that don’t chassé, rather,
That glide forth, slow,
Measured and unbidden
Like a silent tear that escapes,
Unnoticed by everyone but you
In a moment everyone else is
Overjoyed, yet your mind is
Recalling a tender moment, of
Long ago when you first met
The one who you had no idea
At the time would be so important to you,
But made all the difference.

The one whom, when they first held you
You knew they were the one
Your heart never again wanted
To live without.

And yet here you are,
Living without…
Love.

Oh, vile words,
Betrayers of my heart,
Get back to your chores.
Back to your duties of describing
Happier times.

Back before a rainy night and
An old wooden bridge and the
Way my heart carved
Initials into it’s memory.

This is the beauty and the
Weight of a poet’s heart:
To feel all or nothing at all,
And to describe it either way.
To vividly recall
Moments best left in the past.

One day new memories will
Undoubtedly replace the old.
Until then,
This poet’s angst is having loved
And lost and sighs at being solidly in possession of a
Poetic heart that won’t ever forget.

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