I have written my poem already.
I walk through the halls.
Since they broke up months ago,
I have rebuilt new walls.

I like telling stories,
I make them up at night.
They, too, can’t
Distinguish what is wrong from right.

I wake up in the morning,
I breathe in Autumn air,
Trying to forget the once,
About which I used to care.

Once upon a time,
That is how stories go.
Never-ending love stories,
Often end with whoa.

Marriage will tie you down,
I am independent,
Society paints me as a clown,
Art is transcendent,

But what happens when Atlas,
Crumbles down and turns to dust?
Does the earth shatter,
Along with my unquestioned trust?


I have written my poem already.
I walk through the halls.
Since they broke up months ago,
I have rebuilt new walls.