I sometimes think of death.
I wonder what would happen.
Would it end the pain and guilt, or be what I imagine?
But then I think again,
And think of what's to lose,
The things I wouldn't get to see the path I can't now choose.

Life at times can test you,
Make you doubt your worth,
Learn from each encounter,
especially those that hurt.

I am trying to be a poet
but I felt like your poem.
Am I an artist or
am I the remnants of your paint
splattered on my favorite jeans?
Or the beautiful words you gave me
including "I'm sorry"?
I am trying to be a poet
but the words get spit back in the bottle
and stick with strangers who I have told too much to.
Am I a writer
Or am I just gagging on the words you threw at me
when you smashed the plates
and slammed the door?
I am trying to be a poet.
But I am tired.
Isn't
That
Poetry?