You rush in, yet you don't form orderly sentences
The mind doesn't want to order you into a marching
And I as a writer want to try and write on this too
Yet when the three of us are in such a predicament
How will any poetry arise from this at all, right there, that thought
How fanciful it seems, to write about having the inability to
So here is another spin on words, singing some looming meaning
I wanted to write about love, absence, the curdling feeling of pain
But these are written about so often, so much too
At this juncture I have felt it all, felt it over and again , become friends
Become an acquaintance to my own self, where I was once a lover
If you or anyone for that matter should chance upon this
Know full well that this is not a lament, but a woeful sigh
Of wanting to have been something akin to those bright stars
That shine on your heart in the nights, to soothe and ease
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