Last Years Fling

My poetry is nothing more then crumpled newspaper,
Words that are smudged beyond comprehension
But at one time was all current and relevant;
I guess time has a way of eroding people that way too.

Was it you who told me to that even dreams die?
What made you come to that conclusion
Because I've been fighting for the dying all this time
And not a single dream has thanked me...

No I'm not quite bitter but I'm not okay,
Could it be that my own have passed away?
Or have they been hidden by the misery
That ive taken to keep you sane.

I suppose I am nothing more then last years fling,
Another washed up has been that looks for meaning
In words that no one even reads anymore...
Funny how time has a way of changing us.