To: My Lover

yes, you...

It’s still about the wind, isn’t it?

Blowing through your mind, making you an easy bone to break

I can help, I can be your shoulder to lean on coz I’m a lost cause as well

And my bones are still intact

But I’ve been hurt before, I have

I haven’t told you

I haven’t

And I feel awful

But

You have to understand that I wished I’d told you

I really want to

But

And it just keeps coming down to the wind and how you’re easily flexible, isn’t it?

Tell me everything that’s hurting you

Because you can’t help the fact that I’m hurting too

I hate how you’ve become, but I don’t and I’m just saying that because the fact it’s hurting me so much

And it’s none of your concern but I really wish I could be there for you

Words

They’re powerful only to a certain extent, if that one person doesn’t read the words in which you’ve intended of them to read

Then your poem means absolutely nothing