Everything about me
makes me long for you,
and every long day
makes me miss those fleeting moments
we shared together.
Every tear I shed
of the ones you wiped from my face
and as the pain gets a little worse
I try not to remember
how you made it better.
Every word I write
is pushing you away
so for now
I’ll be the one thats new
and you can be weathered.
Hey, how have you been?
(I’ve missed you)
I’ve been good.
(I’m a mess)
Yeah, It’s been awhile.
(I’ve thought about you everyday)
What are you doing these days?
(Tell me you haven’t moved on)
Oh, that’s great.
Me? Yeah, nothing serious though.
(No, not since you)
Yeah, it was good to see you too.
You know that feeling you get,
the one in math class when you’re solving problems
and the answers are coming so easily to you
that you have to stop and think,
“I must be doing this wrong.”?
Yeah that one.
Thats exactly how I feel
every time I finish a poem,
but then I remember that writing is subjective
and there really isn’t a right or wrong way to do it.
YoU CAn WritE AnYTHinG aNd aNyWAy yOU WanT.
No one can tell you it’s wrong because it will always be right to someone
even if thats just you.
I have found, that my problem is
I always have too much to say.
A shortage or time
and an excess of words.
I wonder if its really just that silence
can speak louder
and hold more meaning
because someone lost in thought,
liberated from their own voice,
can not only see what they’re thinking
they can feel it.