If I spilled our story upon pages for all the world to read,
It would never change the fact that you have damaged me.
No, words cannot restore to me that which I have lost,
They only amplify my actions and what their fleeting pleasures cost.
I cannot write a love poem that will negate all the rest,
To vent with pen and paper, removes no ­burden from chest.
Constructing songs of stricken stanzas will do nothing for my soul,
For I'm missing too many pieces, I'll surely die before I'm whole.
But laughter will be my medicine because, to me, you were a drug,
And undeniable addiction – merely poison in my lungs.
Oh, I knew you'd never catch me, not that you'd cause my fall,
My words to you spoke volumes, whereas yours meant nothing at all.
I realize these lines change nothing … for I cannot write this off,
But I'll waste ink with the efforts, in hopes of moving on