I do believe in love at first write.

Every poem I send,
Every word I spent,
Every day I sat and shared
my poetic whispers into the vastness
of the deep unknown web.

Somewhere along the way
I lost myself.

Each scribble,
every rant, and dribble
was written by my fragmented heart,
beating and bleeding
every last drop of ink I had left.

These pages are full of my poetic scares,
a lost art is once again found,
it was hiding under my skin
and in my mind it festered
and decayed.

Like rotten, forgotten, dead roses
perfumed by its wilting mulch.

Soon my poetic form will transcend
above this vast web,
it will take intrigue
and wrap it up to proper for a transformation,
forming word’s into poetic justice
that cursed my ink soaked soul
with abstract view’s of reality
that’s written
while I fought my sufferings.

What a sad day it will be,
if ever I lose my poetic drive.

Oh woe is me, unto such a day as this.
The darkest hour of my life would be
the day I lose my first love (poetry).

© By Amanda D Shelton