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. 

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