This is the story Of fifty poems I found Soon after you Were lowered Into a nameless grave.
You told me once When we were young That it was Too hard to write It was too hard To strip your soul Into a piece of paper That it was tiring To unclothe your dreams And wear pretty words Into a diary That never spoke back.
Eventually, you gave in You wrote one poem And then you wrote Forty nine others Just like the first.
But you made me promise That I wouldn't read them Not one word Until you were gone Because this world It was never your home And I wanted To break that vow Every second of every day But I never did And the honest truth is I don't know why.
So when I finally read you It wasn't a surprise There were no metaphors No similes, no rhymes There was nothing really In those sentences To indicate that You were a poet.
And in the end I realised that You never wanted to Create beautiful poems You just wanted to Leave behind words Raw and decidedly not pretty But words all the same.
I never did finish Those poems You see.. I never wanted To read you I just wanted To watch You write.