To The Poet

I spend much of my time alone

Stopped writing as much

And why? Well I don't really know

But the familiar feeling

Ink stains on my fingertips

Silence breaking through my room

Air filled with words that rhyme

And some that don't

Balled up paper thrown all about

Some poems for my keeping, some that just needed to get out

Much of my time is spent alone

Plenty of time to write

But inspiration comes and goes

Until one day, everything becomes too much

And there's nothing left to do

Nothing to show for once the tears have dried up

And happy moments become black and white photos

Holes in walls, holes in hearts, they're the same

But there are no holes in poerty

No lies, no trust, no commitment

We sometimes forget these things

Spending most of my time alone

I've found that I've forgotten more than most people even know

My mind is not a simple and straight flow

It's on lines, in short phrases

Trying to find the perfect ending

To each thought