She never responded, so I figured she stopped caring,
Paper trails of unfinished work,my heart died to have her pen tip caress my soul/
My eyes feined for her words, what was once about me,
But even for a poet in distress, a broken heart couldnt release me/
Scholars have written about this, and songs have repeated my struggles
But no bridge, no rhyme, could help the tears out of my eyes/
Poetry w/o any substance, my stanzas lacked her lyrical attachments,
And as my pages ran close to empty, my chapters faded w/o her touch/
But who am I to force an artist where her pallet has ran dry?
Bc though my passion has never dimmed,
whats a purpose w/o its life?
What is living w/o any ambition?
Love doesnt stand on it own...
to be continued.
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