​I do believe in love at first write.
Every poem I write,
Every word I spent,
Everyday that I sat and shared
my poetic whispers into the vastness of the 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.

Onto these pages,
full of my poetic scares,
a lost art is once again found,
it was hiding under my skin.

In my mind it festered and decayed.

Like rotten,
dead roses
perfumed by its wilting mulch.

Soon my poetic form will transcend
above this vast web,
it will take intrigue wrap it up to prepare for its transformation,
forming word’s into poetic justice;
that cursed my ink soaked soul,
with abstract view’s of reality,
that I wrote
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