I wonder if I do it for you.
I wonder if this bad
these cry for helps,
the senseless tagging,
I wonder if you’re the reason I’m still writing.
And it is true,
I never wrote love poems until I met you.
That is something my ex can attest to.
what started as catharsis brings more
attention and seems less
like art than it did before.
I wonder if I’m writing to keep myself sane
or to keep the hope alive that I still walk your brain.
Am I encrusted against the
grey matter or the white?
Am I a voice inside your head or
the thing that keeps you up at night?
Do you think about me in snippets or
Does an image of me even cross your mind at all during the day?
Have you pushed me out of your head
for months now
without even a
And if so was it letting go,
or running away to give the illusion that
you still had some pride?
I want to know why I’m writing.
Because it doesn’t seem like it’s for me anymore.
If it ever was.
I want to know if my poetry is my way of saying,
“I’m okay” if they ever think of me
and want to catch up.
And that’s why this is unhealthy.
Because they’ve all moved on,
And here I am writing,
wondering if they ever wonder about
if they ever check up on
if they ever hark back on memories of