The audacity to call myself a poetess, With no narration of days of February Or chill nights of December.
So do I remember.
These ain't the months we met,or parted,
Surely I remember.
With each warmer day still of February chills and tremors,all eerie,
Eerie the days of January.
Memories of the one lingering,
Before ending this month of February
I let my echoes of pain crumble acquiescing myself to be a poetess
His only poetess.
(Only his poetess)
Composing a stanza rare
crafting a rebirth of love unheard,
a poetic affair of unpromised hatred. Hatred of him to anyone I love anywhere.
Accompanying me everywhere
like a stubborn nightmare.
YOU ARE READING
BEHIND THE TEXS
PoetryAn anthology of all the poems I wrote for the the boy whose silent treatment made me a writer.This book is a collection of all the texts I died to send but couldn't, or unsent if sent hence the name BEHIND THE TEXTS.
