In no way do I claim to be a poet. Art was always just a way to bring my insides out, and my poems are nothing more but pieces of me. My inner artist that aches for a response asks that I share this blog with people, but my nature of a perfectionist demands that I don't. If you stumble upon this, I appreciate constructive criticism. Remember, though: perhaps you can't see beyond ruins to the building that once was, so you can comment on its architecture. Perhaps, you take a look inside. This is a communion, after all.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Without you.

These are the late hours,
these are the hardest,
the sorriest, the saddest
hours of my days.

These are the late days,
these are the darkest,
the cruelest, the harshest
days of my weeks.

These were the late weeks,
these were the slowest,
the dullest, the weakest
weeks of my months.

These were the late months.
These were the late years.
This was my life with you.

This is my life now.
Without you.
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