We are poets

Of the world,

We sometimes

Heal each other,

And sometimes

Hurt one another.

 

We love beyond

Boundaries and

Insecurities,

And not tend to

Look at people

And their feelings

As norms.

 

I wrote last night,

And every other night

For a person

Who I very much adored,

And sincerely loved;

She called me her love,

And in my absence,

She called him her love.

 

I can no longer generate trust,

Maybe people prioritize lust,

Maybe people just pretend,

And when they’re done,

They conveniently call it

An end.

 

One can be hopeful

Of carrying a bird

With a wounded wing,

But with the weight of her world,

And her baggage of lies,

She will ruin your genuine tries.

 

Tonight, and every other night,

There will inevitably be a fight

Between a poetic mind

And a cautious mind.

 

I will eternally remember that

I wrote about her, for her,

While she wrote for another;

She spoke about love

And all the futuristic things to me,

Having another company.

 

I tried to find love,

Give love and attract love

From the same world

That has begun seeking

Other things above love.

 

There are times;

Difficult times, unkind times,

When what you seek,

Isn’t equivalently seeking you.

 

Painful poetry was never my thing,

But I guess this is how it feels

And this is how it flows,

When a kind bird

With a backstabbed wing

Begins to sing.