this is a poem of sorts

this is a poem of sorts
(from Spiritual Babble For The Lonely Agnostics)
by Maverick.214

I have been through a lifetime of suffering,
and it is only Monday.
I cannot set myself free, yet.
It is further evidence of my emotional epoxy,
trapping me in sorrow.
This is a poem of sorts,
but I am not empowered by the belief that I am a poet,
knowing that even darkness lights a somber city, really.

In my head I don't hear your voice, anymore,
and but I still wince with laughter when I think about the skits,
revealing your vengeance upon hate upon vengeance.
I can't be consumed by the simple things you call fake, false, and frigid.
Is that place you now call home?
Where have you gone now that you don't have me to rely on?
This a poem of sorts,
but I am not empowered by the belief that I am a poet,
knowing that none of this makes sense to anyone, really.

Snuff a candle out, watch whispers of smoke rise,
and know that your infinite breath is intertwined in a flame
which no longer burns for us.
I achieve nothing by releasing you of something.
I'm a little tired now, and we should both rest away from each other.
You dream of yesterday, I'll dream of tomorrow;
we can take turns if you like until you decide to live in the now.
This is a poem of sorts,
but I am not empowered by the belief that I am a poet,
knowing that there once was a once, really.