[167] Fond Farewell

Your last words stung me like a memory
waiting to be formed and then hide itself
only to knock me down when I’m at the top
The days go by without any inspiration
Empty pages filled with anger and hurt
and isolation
Until you arrive in the form of a muse
waiting to get twisted and moulded into
an alternation of the truth

I am tired of relying on you as the muse
How easy the words flow when I call upon you
It feels like I use our memory to become words
and not treat as just a memory worth only remembering

Too young to be perfect
Too old to not be aware
The past sets the tone for the present
and the future seems to not care
Mistakes trapped in our memories
haunt the potential of my sanity
so I try to be half sincere in this poem
to reach closer to what was you & I

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