The motions

Tell me, was it all in vain?

At this point popping prescription pills seems preferable to pain.

Poetry appears my prosthetic voice,

but is it prophetic or pathetic, what’s the point of choice?

When at this point I have no power

If I’m running, call me a coward

Can’t help it, I’ve stared it in the face,

but we both know, it can’t be saved.

Should I save my breath, should I save my face,

should I start a new, should I just give chase?

You ran, left, because it wasn’t right

I never could get the words just right

I couldn’t help but care, but love isn’t fair

See it doesn’t pick and choose where it takes roots

Like leaves in autumn we fall through the air

In the fall there is something precious

Memories to last lifted by lifelong lessons

Better to have loved  and lost, paid the cost

Accost a summer harvest one year

Succumbing to tears, and facing our fears

In my heart, the scar of a splinter

And give up one sunny day for a day in the rain

Than to have never felt what was winter.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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