I once was broken-hearted. My remnant mind was crazed,
I wrote for you then verses. In abysses, I gazed...
In gauging then the meter, I sensed a silent calm,
And so it was that rhyming became a soothing balm.
And though you're long departed, I'm writing verses still,
For though they're my addiction, they do, a vacuum, fill.
And when my heart is weary and mind has paid the cost,
They give me back my essence – the quiet I have lost.
I write in a tongue that's foreign and wonder what's the use.
But when the muse comes calling, I rarely can refuse.
I wish that you could hear me and know that I am well.
The things that I've been thinking, I wish that I could tell...
How many write such verses, how many hold them in?
How few are given chances, in this, our world of sin?
There's grief and there's forgiveness, there's love and there is pain...
I wish that I could hear you and be with you again.
My heart, it still is broken. My mind, it still is crazed.
That I am living, working – at this, I'm quite amajed.
But still, I'm writing verses – and wondering what's the use.
And this, that I am writing, is merely my excuse. 2014 July 7th, Mon, 8:57 pm Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York