A Lonely One Way Road

I know this gentle pen well.

It was full of life,

painting vibrant hues.

But now, it’s completely

crestfallen and arid,

and refused shedding

a drop of tear

from this broken heart

I’m holding close.

It’s almost dawn,

and I’m still sitting

by the window,

gazing outside,

eyes fully fixated

on that lonely

one-way road

home;

I must’ve sat here all night long,

waiting for you

yet, you’re nowhere insight.

On this lonely one-way road,

I see not footprints,

not even the one

you’ve imprinted, when you left.

My mind is left in plight.

This is totally absurd though,

having no inks to spill

when I’m aching

to tell you

how I’m feeling

inside.

As a poet, shouldn’t this be easy,

dancing with words or metaphors?

Am I a poet?

I feel guilty for calling myself one,

for I used to know this tender

crying ballpoint,

but not this lonely,

obsessed man, who’s studying

the naked blank pages

alone.

I never met

this broken man, who’s still

looking out the window,

and waiting for you

to walk home again,

on that long, lonely

one-way road.

Maybe now is the time

To dry my eyes and stop to cry

And forever say goodbye.

MidnightInk (10/14/2018)