I used to write when my life was terrific.
I used to evince my beatitude through my nib.
I presumed that poems were all about rapture.
But, as my life deteriorated, sorrow is all my verses can capture.
I used to exhibit the warmth of the lap of my mom.
Now, I can only hope that her soul never comes across me to see the disaster I’ve become.
She loved flowers.
I wanted to gift her a garden. But, the only flower I gave her was on her funeral.
I used to write and sing for my love.
But little did I know, I was doing it all wrong.
I used to write about sun and birds.
But, now, I write about clouds and thuds.
I’ve ended up all alone.
My heart is in a great pain.
I wish for the wind to blow me away.
Or, I dissolve in the rain……