My Old Friend

Poetry is my old childhood friend, the one I grew up with,
the one who was always there for me no matter what...
She understood my triumphs and trials, pain, anger, and passion
She listened to my loves and hates
until
7 years ago
my life's work was carelessly, spitefully thrown away
never to be recovered.
A lifetime of poetry, dead, like losing a child.
The muse went with that box of papers to a
charity in the back of my broken down car.
Why won't the muse come back?
I'm begging.
I can't live without you, poetry.
Come back and end this agony
soon,
very soon.
Siberia1000 Siberia1000
46-50, F
Dec 13, 2012