The urge to write comes upon me, but I've lost inspiration; I look over my Prosetry, and find all the words have been used, taken; Two hundred and twenty-six poems and short stories, what in the world is left for me to say...words, come again, another day? I'm sad. My muse is gone, has left me. My inspiration, my heart, I can no longer see. What in the world does anyone want to hear from a sad, blind writer like me?
I knew you, yes.
I heard you, yes.
I saw you, yes.
...and yet you left.
I cherished you, yes
I revered your hands, yes.
your mind, your words, yes.
...and yet you left.
Your smile awakened my day
Your laughter quickened my heart
Your strength of being was seen at play
and yet you left, you threw it all away
was I wrong, to want a friend
was I wrong, to open my heart
was I wrong to speak the truth
was I wrong to push and pull
was I wrong to hold your space
you ran away
you wouldn’t stay
from day into night
was there a right
was there a wrong
for heart to love this long
