I
don’t
anymore
write
like
I
used
to.
I
may
look
like
I’m
perfectly
fine,
but I’m stuck here, hanging on a very thin line.
I
don’t
as
want
days
pass,
to
and
seem
they
so
turn
weak,
into
weeks.
Candy
sweet
and
forevermore.
Like that memoir, on our favorite cake store,
or that time I told you it was you who I adore.
There is no questioning how much I’m missing you,
Maybe if you look closely, you’ll see how much I do.
I miss that goofy smile, or that messy hair,
the
times
you
told
me
that
you
care.
Reminiscing all of these won’t help me at all,
as
wishing
becomes
Maybe
I’ll
write
after
all
the
It
will
Like
be
again,
pain,
fragile
somehow,
after
beautiful
one
a
all
I’ll
the
somewhere,
of
those
fall.
begin,
scars.
somehow.
fairytales,
or that sweet couple by the ice cream parlor,
no
more
walking
out
on
anybody’s’
door.
I’m still writing but not like how it was supposed to be,
not
like
this,
not
for
everyone
to
see.
BY APRIL BITO-ON
CONFE SSION
I’ve written maybe a thousands of poems before;
A WRITE R’S SWEET EST
When everything was perfect, when I had you.