The Black & White Poet

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Shoe Box of Dead Love

It is merely impossible to gather all emotions within and splash them all upon a page to display. As a minor poet, with absolutely no talent, I make such a strong effort to take my unvalued and selfish feelings and transform them into understandable words. My effort is useless. I have failed. Because my poems are meaningless to the one I have meant for them to be for… all my hope has been quenched… and my warm, sun-side-spirit has been melted by his lost charm, and unavailable love.

I remember your smile, I cherished it.
I remember your life, I embraced it.
I remember your voice, I memorized it.
I remember your kiss, I hid it.
I remember your heart, I treasured it.
I remember your hand, I held it.
I remember your care, I captured it.
I remember your Love, for I had placed it in a shoebox inside my closet. But it died. So I was forced to throw it away. Along with Love, everything else escaped and withered too. Your kind words that healed my damaged self… murdered. Your appreciation for my love for you… gone. Every breathtaking moment and every true dream made possible by you… forever sealed.

I remember your cry, It haunts me.
I remember your good-bye, It killed Love.

~DaYnA e. 3/13/03

But perhaps his words of love that were upon all those letters, place in the shoebox was just something I had only imagined in the first place.


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Shoe Box of Dead Love