The fingers stain’d and the ink is dry
Writing for no reason why.
When hearth and home is truly lost
What use is there to still play host?
To emotions that we know run deep.
Its painful I’ve no wish to keep.
Hoping – for things that are not real
Pain instead is what I feel
Spitting insults, shouting words
About things that need not be heard
You dropped, I walked what else is there?
I begg’d you to, you didn’t care.
So tell me not, the fault is mine.
I’ve waited, years following your design.
For promises that you never kept.
Too much pain, too much times I’ve wept.
A/N: An oldie but goodie. I’ve been quite remiss in posting these days so I thought I’d make it up with an old poem I wrote back in the day. Hopefully this will get my juices going! This year I plan to write in more proclivity so I’m putting up some of my older works that inspire me – works that make me feel like, “Hey maybe writing is something for me after all!”