This pen in my hand doesn't even seem to be mine,
I haven't looked at it therefore used it - in a very long time.
My notebook seems to be disgusted with me as I flip through the blank pages,
All it knows now is I'm a stranger along with the rest of the blank faces.
I try to apologize- It's not my fault I've been busy
But I know that's not the cause- Even I don't agree.
Poetry is my life, I live for my words.
But I haven't completed a poem in years, I'm lucky if they come out in thirds.
But today I woke up feeling like new words will somehow slide of my tongue with strong feelings of passion, and compassion in a reasonable fashion... As though I've never put the pen down.
But how? Or what? Or who?
I call him friend.
The one that was always there, the one that I never open my eyes to see,
It was he, who watched me get hurt time and time again,
The one that held me when I cried, the one who was truly my friend.
He is and was and will always be the man I've always wanted and never seen.
The man of my dreams in every aspect of the way, that mysterious man that I now claim, as mine.
And I hope he never lets me go, for he's now the melody to my song that only I know.
I won't fight for a man but for his love I'll fight, he's my best friend, my man....but mostly my reason to write.
