The Unfinished Poem

Her life, a big book of unfinished projects,

Drawings of stick men with no hearts

Walking away from a blank page of stories that could’ve been written,

On to a path of half-hearted half-started,

Sculptures of what her life could’ve looked like,

Fragments of her soul torn from her chest

Reformed into could-be should-be life changing masterpieces

But they crumble instead, crumble in bed,

Staring at the ceiling watching dreams and visions of life fade away into the oblivion of a thoughtless, thought-like world of thinking

Perhaps she could’ve