Unsent
by M. Allshouse
I wrote you a letter
in runny, emotional ink
on tear-soaked parchment.
It held all the words I’ve swallowed,
buried so deep
I almost forgot how to spell them.
My penmanship shaky,
the lexicon less than poetic.
I don’t know if I’m sad,
or angry—
maybe this is apathy.
Emotionally constipated,
bleeding the heart’s well dry
until all that’s left is bitterness—
bone dry and brittle.
I wrote you a letter.
But I doubt
I’ll ever send it.
Unsent
by M. Allshouse
I wrote you a letter
in runny, emotional ink
on tear-soaked parchment.
It held all the words I’ve swallowed,
buried so deep
I almost forgot how to spell them.
My penmanship shaky,
the lexicon less than poetic.
I don’t know if I’m sad,
or angry—
maybe this is apathy.
Emotionally constipated,
bleeding the heart’s well dry
until all that’s left is bitterness—
bone dry and brittle.
I wrote you a letter.
But I doubt
I’ll ever send it.