She wrote like she dressed:
with careful aforethought
and attention which showed
in the finished product
He preferred to shoot from the hip
with a splat and leave it at that;
letting his pen slip and drip
a pile of words and untrimmed fat.
The considerate might take the time,
searching for nuggets less worthless
that the most patient could find;
most would just call it a mess.
My life is a ghost town.
Hope long since packed its bags and deserted,
leaving behind the weight of potential unrealized.
I sit in a saloon filled with why’s
slowly losing my grip on the lies,
succumbing to verity
in all its severity
while ghosts of relationships have me caught,
demanding me to be all the things that I’m not.
The well of emotion is dry,
as cold and empty as I;
these regrets replaced by wondering
what the hell has been happening
in this place I thought would be my life
but turned out to be just trouble and strife.