I Came To Write a Poem


I came to write a poem,
Because he asked me to,
You've been too quiet of late,
He whispers,
“What are you thinking?”

He reads only to see where I am,
He does not hear the words I speak,
Nor understand what I write,

He knows only that when I write,
I am trying to communicate,
What I see and feel,
But I have grown weary of words,
And do not wish to speak…

Nothing changes,
Life moves on despite the dead,
Who beg us to remember them;
Drifting in our dreams,
And haunting our memories,
With things we wish we had said.


I've been in darkness and the light
That shines overhead does not reach me,
The echoes of those who tell me to move on,
Are drowned out by the sorrow in my heart.

I came to write a poem for him,
Because he asked me to,
But he will not understand the words I write,
Nor remember the names,
That I hear whispering in my heart.

He will not understand that some hearts are slower
To forget and need more time to mend,
Before we speak of rainbows and unicorns,
And cities that lie buried beneath the sea.

He wants a poem from me,
And I came here to write one for him,
But the words he wants to hear,
Will not come to me…

I am sitting in a tree,
Watching the moon rise,
Watching the stars dance across the sky,
Listening to the wolves call out in loneliness,

And the last thing I want to do,
Is write a poem for him,
Instead I wrote one for me.