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You can't make time stand still,
You can't fill my head with an endless stream of ideas.
My pen shall inevitably run out of ink,
As, inevitably, I shall run out of words.

You cannot change who I am,
Just as I cannot change you.
This poetry is my nature;
How could you ever take it away?

I weave a web of words,
And yet you tear it down,
Down into an endless abyss,
Where I am lost without my expression.

Ergo, I write on your face,
My ink staining your skin black.
But in a second it disappears;
My words are void.

Have they lost their meaning?
Have I lost my soul?
My stanzas, my quatrains and haikus...
They are all I know.

You who once gave me so much to write,
You who once filled me with such agony...
Is it possible, oh, how can it be?!
Is it possible that I feel nothing now?

I never did know how to manage them,
These myriad emotions I once had.
Despair and anger, doubt and skittishness.
Where have they all gone?

They seem to have followed you,
Left behind when I walked away.
I loved you once.
What happened to that?

I once had a great ardor,
I once was young.
Have I really aged so much;
A senior citizen in a teenager's body?

I had zeal, I had strength,
I was vivacious and invigorated.
Have you taken that away too?
Just as you have taken my words?

This albatross of pain,
Is that what you have given me in return?
I gave you everything I had,
And this is your thanks?

I do not abhor you,
As I am aware that most would.
Instead, I pity you, somehow;
But my love for you is gone.

So return to me my words,
Give me back my emotions.
I want to feel again.
I am sick of this numbness.