She learned too late that poets are among the damned, cursed to commiserate over their loss, to reach with outstretched hands – hands that will never know the weight of what they seek.

The voices of the dead poets cried out in alarm and warned her about the greatest heartache of all – how every stroke of pen thereafter would open the same wound over and over again.
-Lang Leav

Just found out how true this is. That every time I reread the poems I wrote I travel back in time to where I was. Like the past becomes the present all over again.

If only I could stop time
I will not keep you forever
I just want to hold you
A little while more.

He was sleeping next to me when I wrote these lines, crying. It was one of the last lasts before he was set to leave.

A Plea to the Moon

Lying awake each night
tired of day’s work
thinking what lies ahead
just staring like I’m paralyzed
not knowing what to do next

Wishing I could
just drown my own voice
keep hearing it cry
wanting to just find you
and tell you goodbye

But then I remember
those long walks together
the distances we covered
with love we could conquer

Time took me by surprise
defenses gone weaker
I’ve fallen for you deep
but you seem to differ

Everyday is a war
inside me there is chaos
will I fight or surrender
who will get killed?

Death to holding on
for drowning in longing
Death to letting go
for losing the will to live
Whichever I choose
it is me who dies

I plead to the moon
I do not want to die
Tell him I’m waiting
if he still wishes me to survive.