a mixture of abandonment, a pinch of anger
and a whole universe of lost.
it's just that everything I write feels inadequate
even the flowers seem to lack their previous luster
and although this moment shall be fleeting,
as if I don't know the sun will shine tomorrow,
I have found motivation in the emptiness
you have given me.
I have found motivation in the fragile caress
of the cavernous void left after a raging fit of anger
and once again I find nothing makes sense, but to write.
To pour my soul into meaningless words
written on paper or digitized into a world
where they will all soon be forgotten
to everyone, but their author.
And isn't it man-kind's goal to leave behind a legacy?
to make something worth remembering?
and how shall I be remembered?
as the girl who smiled too much...
laughed too loudly...
felt too quickly...?
what drab bit of nothingness will be my legacy?
it won't be the poetry, the tenderness
the way my skin leaps aflame at the hint of your touch.
it won't be the artistry, the passion
the way I long for that perfect kiss.
it won't be the intelligence, the insanity
the way my heart can't seem to function if you're not around.
No, it won't be any of these things...
...unless of course
It's what I force them to see.
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