The other night I actually sat down and tried to write some new poetry. I am sorely out of practice, and it really shows. I have a few ideas in my head of subjects I want to treat, but I haven’t found the right way yet (right being a very relative term).
Anyway, here is a rather poor sampling of what I jotted down:
looking at her, and she looks back
but he can’t hold her gaze
too long since offering his heart
too soon since it was ripped apart
he doesn’t know where he would start
but he’s so tired of empty, lonely days
admiring him, and she’s relieved
his eyes refused to stay
worried he might see inside her
knowing he would just revile her
but wishing he would come to find her
she’s so tired of empty, lonely days
Make of it what you will.