I have no ink left to rhyme
I have no ink left to rhyme. Don't worry, I am fine, just a little dead inside. There was a chapter, I made it my whole book. It wasn't a part of me, it was me that it took. I have tried to write, but my pen still shakes, shocked that a love like that could simply break. I search for words, for reasons, for something to explain why. Instead, I find a man a little more silent each night. I don't have rhymes anymore. I don't have the strength to fight. I'm just a man with a heartbeat, and a graveyard inside. The world blamed you for the silence that remained. How do I tell them I was the knife, the wound, the reason it bled through. You tried to keep it breathing, I cut the wires every time. You stitched the wounds together, I reopened every line. You reached for my hand when I was determined to fall. But when it finally lost its pulse, and there was nothing left to save, you salted every open scar so I'd remember what I gave. ...