Saturday Night So many times in our lives we feel the need to cry.
So give me a reason why all the love in life must try
To get rid of itself wastefully, unattainable and with most haste.
Like a flower that blooms just to wilt and die, I felt my heart…
Well a piece of it just crumbled and flaked away on Saturday
Midday, my soul fell weak and shriveled. To the sounds of a friend,
More perfect than most, stop by to tell us she has finally reached the coast.
The ocean breeze, I guess it’s better than the perfect trees that we planted together!
Her boat had docked for about 3 to 4 hours and it wishes to sail away and never darken our….
Let’s not become over poetic this is the story of love come and love lorn to love must go with another
Tell me something new and I will show you why I hate my hatred, why I hate life for it has not shown us anything useful.
I hate the time we lose. All the phone calls she doesn’t send, I hate myself forgiving in, as I surrender to the idea of losing
To the fame of unknown love that will never be fulfilled because we have to stand idlly by and let it fly
For a man most educated, the only word I can say is something so small and insignificant
I hate myself for letting you get away
I hate the dreams we have of you
The love we shared with you
The companionship you let us reach
The coffee we drank every Sunday when we would meet
The kisses you gave the hugs we squeezed
The hopelessness of truth
Saturday change the outcome but not how we feel
We love you now more than ever
But will stand back as you congeal into the arms of another you really don’t love
But with this I say from the both of us good luck
With love,
We give .
With hope,
We shared.
With heavenly arms,
We hold your heart
And tell you we shall never let you come apart.
Your angels wait near, and the fiction of our future once so dear to us now just a dream.
We love thee and pray to be with you one day.
Ever and ever the never ending September
The time we learn the truth about us now that a year may be nearly past now in this cold
January we look to a warmer climate in you maybe…. but I could be wrong
To you the golden goddess
From the angels of dreams
A short poem of losing it all and gaining nothing back
By Robert Greenwood