Things I never tell
by the time I was sixteen I was a published poet
everyone knew the outlines of my future;
I would spend years writing, twisting words around,
drawing, telling, compose poems, books
there was no end to my future,
no limits for my 'talent', my dreams
every teacher told me how far Id go;
to aim for everything that life had to offer
to never give up
noone would guess that seven years later
it would have been three years since the last time
I picked up a pen to write;
three years since never ending dreams
the words arent there any longer
I tried to make them stay
I tried to paint them on my walls
catch them on windows
cut them into my skin
but they always had somewhere else to be;
other combinations to form
always left like butterflies, swaying out
into a new beginning
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