A Poetry Getting Over

Moments ago, 

I left my skin beside those heavy grey curtains.

Fed the pores with soft music.

I had to die in a poetry, I was writing tonight.

But a reticence took me up in hold.

I was found by another poetry midway to one.

I had to put on the fingertips back again.

For a while, the wail has to keep the pleasure on its front.

To delve into a part of poetry, that chose me to dig into it deeper.

I had to get over with the smell I hurled myself into. 

To my best I could only draw myself away from the previous one.

For things to continue, one needs to get over with others.

I try this a lot with poetry.

You've to get going with pieces of poetries sometimes.

And you've to keep getting over with some others.

For a poetry to be written with ease, a lover needs forgiveness.

A soldier, his hope for life.

And a poet, that I aspire to become,

Needs another pious skin for I'd have to 

Keep getting over with the skin,

Wearing which I wrote my last poem.

I'd not wish to become a poet of two poems.

Getting over with what I once wrote is what I keep letting in.

For I know, I could never barge into two lives.

I could never put on many poems at once.

Getting over is what they aspire for after having to get over with me.

Here's another one, you read.

And I'd have to let you go, too.

I've started to forgive myself for taking you along.

But you're no more with me.

I'm moving in and moving on.

I'm getting over.

My poetry would never find you again.

It's getting over.