This is my story.
Do not assume that you
Are the hero, even though

I dedicated a lot of

Lengthy chapters to you.

You are just a
Leaf passing through,
Leaving a slight impression

On a few pages and

A pop of colour among

Some black and white words.

You are a spot of blue ink

Left in the corner, as I wrote

Quickly and passionately

On white blank pages.

You are the muse I loved

Enough to write into my story
And spend time nurturing,
Creating something beautiful
However long it may have lasted.

But do not forget,
Even for a second that

This is my story.

However incomplete or

nonsensical it may seem.
However narcissistic I may sound.
How many ever hours

I spent crafting it.

Rough

Draft

Over

Rough

Draft.
**
This is my story.

the type of sadness
where you're heart
will bleed
black and blue
onto a
blank page

margins are|_________________
home  ­         |________________
to day-        |________________­
dreamy       |_________________
doodles  ­    |_________________
and  ­           |________________
cavalier ­     |________________
corr­ections|________________
or­ some      |________________­
times          |______________­
home          |_____________­__
to my         |_________________
empty   ­     |_________________
word­s        |________________
­and            |_______________­
prettily      |_____________­__
penned      |___________­___
lies.            |_________­_______

Can they read my margins,
see between
the lines
and cut into the edges of
my
conflicted
pages?

                   {I'll never know}

Wrote with my soul
Death by the pen
Blood stained page
Nocturnal again

Crinkle the page
Frustration no more
Hang by desire
Cried four more

All over the sky
Cast doubt in my heart
Wrote one last word
On the page, torn apart

I have heard it said
That the blank page
Is a daring but lonely journey

Some doubt lay grey clouded
Rain enshrouded
The weary words
May not yet come flooding
But I am not afraid

I will not waste the day
In a wasted haze
Instead full blushing
I keep the bile flushing

I try to put most attachments
In their proper place
Death will wait
Or come when beckoned
May even come uncalled
I know it comes for all

Skin will wrinkle
Thoughts may fail me
Inspiration may not avail me
But I do not fear
The potential of the blank page

I've written and scratched off
thousands of words that
I used to describe you,
Yet I'm still left with a blank page.
What am I to do with this?
I've written so much about you;
Every thoughts I have
Is a silent scream
That terrifies me to let out.
This blank page you left me
Leaves me thinking this lonely night,
So silent and calm that even in this darkness
I can hear that silent scream, **"I LOVE YOU."

Leave the window open
Let wind sneak in
As it numbs my skin like a sharp pin
Let it flow to the papers
As they rustle around
I want it here flipping pages
Of letters from you I found
Let it whisper all the words
And read me all the passages
Let the window open
Let it flip the pages
And lift me off the ground

I visited your page
to read your poems
(I thought you'd like to know)
but they were so lost
in a very long list of poems
by so many other poets
and so down and down I went
digging and digging
to find you
in your page
but hey, it was too much bother
(yes, you can take me to task for it)
diving so deep to find you
so I just aborted and clicked away

Don't blame me -  I can only hold my breath
for so long when I go free-diving;
and if I dig too long, I get a bad back