To Her

I wrote poems on her every day,

I send them to her every day,

The poems I wrote, she reads them every day.

The poems stayed behind, but she flew away.

I left only with scrap paper and words of lies,

So I freed them to ashes, as she flew away.

The strings that held us together were the poems I wrote,

I find it hard to believe that they actually hurt,

I was so into my selfishness that I couldn't even see her pain,

It was good for her as she flew away.