She Is Not My Lady

But life has not been so kind

Reality not caring to mind

Only tearing and ripping still

Keeping my eyes from taking their fill

Even as the ground comes closer

Never knowing yet knowing it’s over

 

Can’t remember the last time

Luck favored me with a dime

Or gave me only a cent

Verifying that for this, I am not meant

Especially as the one I love

Rebukes me now from up above

 

Why do I read stories that make me cry and then write poetry that does the same thing?

My Heart Is Gone

Why keep going when it’s never enough?

All burnt up as I try to stay tough

Still keep pushing on and on

Thinking that, of course, nothing will go wrong

Even as the sky falls down

Letting me know with a glowering frown

As all I have is certainly all gone
N
ot just because of this wretched bond

Deciding to ignore that of you, I’m more than just fond

 

Why do I read things that make me write poetry like this?