My dearest friend,
I have much to say
with my voice so broken
and my heart feeling grey.

Because the words in my mouth
aren’t good enough for your ears,
so instead I use stolen verse
from past philosophers.

They were flesh and bone
like you and like I--
full of regret and mistake,
with oceans in their eyes.

Ink blotted paper,
deadlines and bullsh**.
I can’t write the same novels
but I feel the same anguish.

Summers shrink to winters
and young writers turn old poets,
with words wiser than mine,
and with tone heroic.

I will be lesser than my heroes.
Try as I may, I know I will fall
to be headstone and dirt beside
those who seemed so strong and tall.

And though I am dying,
it is not in vain:
down with the sorrow
and down with the chains!

Now in my hot summer
I sit and I write,
striving to be the ones
who fought good fights.

I am striving to be good again,
though I know I am a burden.
I’ll be quiet, I promise
though my plan is uncertain. 

Please read my poetry
and hold it within.
Don’t strive to be anything
other than child with pen.

I know I have hurt you
and made myself a fool
and this poem will never assuage
the pain I have caused you.

I love you my dear
though I do not deserve to feel it,
and I want to be better for you
though I cannot redeem it.

Be kind to yourself
and sleep when you can.
Remember to eat
and write when you’re sad.

Though I am washed up
and shallow at best,
I refuse to forget the winter
I spent in your chest.

I am selfish and ill-cared for
but please don’t leave me.
Stay around and
remind me how not to be.