Broken Poetry
I am made of broken poetry,
Of pieces that don't fit together.
I used to be able to sew them upright,
But now I seem to have run out of ways
To weave my thoughts into words
And nothing I can get out onto paper
Sounds coherent.
I breathe in and out whilst
Waiting for inspiration to strike me,
Because what good is a writer
Without a muse?
What good is a language
When there is nothing left to say?
You see, you took the words
Right out of my chest
When you walked into the room.
I couldn't formulate a thought,
Let alone a sentence,
With my eyes fixed on you.
And I knew that you
Would be my undoing,
A devil in a modern day suit.
So I pushed you out of my life,
Substituted your drug
For another's,
Only to find that the old
Drugs I was used to,
Didn't get me
Quite so high anymore.
I let two years slip by,
Stayed sober,
Stayed clean,
But my bones were always
Jonesing for another hit
Of you.
Of pieces that don't fit together.
I used to be able to sew them upright,
But now I seem to have run out of ways
To weave my thoughts into words
And nothing I can get out onto paper
Sounds coherent.
I breathe in and out whilst
Waiting for inspiration to strike me,
Because what good is a writer
Without a muse?
What good is a language
When there is nothing left to say?
You see, you took the words
Right out of my chest
When you walked into the room.
I couldn't formulate a thought,
Let alone a sentence,
With my eyes fixed on you.
And I knew that you
Would be my undoing,
A devil in a modern day suit.
So I pushed you out of my life,
Substituted your drug
For another's,
Only to find that the old
Drugs I was used to,
Didn't get me
Quite so high anymore.
I let two years slip by,
Stayed sober,
Stayed clean,
But my bones were always
Jonesing for another hit
Of you.