sunday night poems.

You killed the poet in me.

She cracked in half when the color faded

Slippery Sliding down a black hole of blank,

When emotions as she knew it, grew jaded.

The girl made of sugar and spice died

Last Last Winter when the floors froze

And so did hearts. Where the warmth

In her soul went, no one knows.

Or maybe we do, because heartbreaks stack

And flowery language is plucked and sold.

Metaphors are massacred and buried in unmarked graves-

When passion is paralyzed, no stories are told.

You killed the poet in me,

She drowned in a sea

Of lies and tides

and similes.

“But you have yet to say it all,

There’s more life to be lived

Stand tall

There’s agape to give.”

*dedicated to every artist who ever felt like their well was running dry.