Poems Of Broken Heart

Death of a poet

A twisted old leaf flew off with the wind,
A lonely walk down the old roads in her mind,
The benches rusted, falling apart, decaying wood,
As she tried to write something, fumbling through the words.

Yes, a poet died a death never deserved,
Caught in a rat race, poisons all preserved,
She lost the magic that she once knew and had,
At first she was sad, then mad and now bad.

She spluttered out words and arranged them in nonsense lines,
Sentences with no meaning, all blurred, haphazard, lost in the wine,
The heartthrob, the heart that once raced so fast,
Now turned into stone, with drugs and venoms, murdered at last.

Nights of crying herself to sleep,
Still the pain did not go,
Self- esteem, happiness, sunshine, all went away in one go,
They comitted themselves to death together,
Pretty sure she was next in the line,
She knew well, she was never meant to live this life of hers.

She doesn't know how to write, not anymore,
It hurts to feel not good enough in this world,
She was a bud, half-bloomed flower,
Now left with dried petals, with the sorrow of no delightful shower.

Yes, the weather changed, it was too harsh for her,
Or maybe she wasn't meant to be,
She failed, she was such a disappointment,
She was so sorry that she was ever here,
Taking up space, just being another burden,
She wanted to hide, run away, avoid the spotlight and hide behind the curtains.

'Oh God, why was I ever born?' she cried,' if I was to be gone this soon'
And at night, she missed the places, she had never been to,
The stars, the clouds and the moon,
But life, the pain, set them all ablaze,
Ashes, aches, the dreams all dead,
She laid under the tombstone,
Resting forever in a quiet dark world.

She was a good little child, what did it get her?
Anxiety, depression, pressure of expectations,
Beautiful gifts? yet they hit her a bit too hard,
Maybe she was too naive and soft for this tough world,
Such a pity, nipped at a young age,
Trained into a zombie, yet died in the apocalypse.

The young poet, who wrote rubbish trash,
Is now gone, congratulations everyone,
Congratulations society,
She is dead, the drugs, poisons and venoms,
They all worked too well.

-Larkspur Hills

Note: a poem dedicated to all the secret poets, who were never supported, forced to live someone else's dream,
Here's a shoutout to them, to acknowledge their pain.... don't give up yet