I called out into the darkness and listened for a response,
Will you answer my call?
Do you even hear me,
As I wander the night time loneliness of this destructive hall?
💔
I long for a picture to light up my screen,
A memory of when you once cared,
A light to blow away the cobwebs within my darkened mind,
Wallowing in the words we once shared.
💔
The moon seems to have deserted my world,
The stars no longer twinkle their tune,
The darkness is more complete than I’ve ever remembered,
And my heart aches at the loss of the light I gathered beneath the moon.
💔
The sun has risen along the horizon,
Peaking at me for a mere second, than disappearing,
Hidden by the dark clouds that squander my joy,
As I rise from my bed, my strength persevering.
💔
Where once I had the world of happy hours to look forward to,
The light has vanished, clothing me in fears,
I now struggle to fill the day with any form of peace,
And my soul is awash in my heart rendering tears.
💔
I’m running solo this weekend,
All the time in the world to be alone,
The sun is not forecast to make any form of appearance,
As rain is my due, a scene in my life well known.
💔
Some day I’ll look back and revel in the lessons learned,
I’ll walk through the memories of my unfathomable pain,
Healing the poison that currently runs through my veins,
And I’ll pinpoint the exact moment when everything changed.
💔
You’ll have forgotten this girl by that stage,
Moved on from the heartache and sadness you shared,
Toxicity washed the past with regret,
Where she believed you ‘maybe’ once cared.
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
If you enjoy this piece, you may enjoy this one too.
Please visit my website if you'd like more information on my newly published book, Battle Angel : The Ultimate She Warrior.
Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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More stories from Colleen Millsteed and writers in Poets and other communities.
Second Tuesday of November
No one knew how the event really started. Between a few beverages at the bar, maybe? Notes passed carefully on the street? Or, perhaps a secret meetup at early hours of the day? Whatever the root source was, we were here now on the second Tuesday of November. Nervous, but also absorbed by the allure.
By Elizabeth Petit3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (3)
Phenomenal work Colleen!
A memory of when you once cared Where she believed you ‘maybe’ once cared Moving on is the journey between that first line to that second line. Loved your poem my friend!
Broken hearts, lost souls. Why is it that some can simply walk away without a thought or care while so many of us languish forever in our grieving memories?