I'm pretty sure this would be against the "rules" of our Writers' Group if we had ever discussed it, but we haven't, so I'm going to do it before the subject arises . . . I'm going to post something that I wrote long, long ago. Roughly 40 years ago, actually. While looking through a notebook I carried during high school, I found this poem I wrote when I was 14 or 15 and very obviously full of teenage angst:
With empty heart you found me
and tenderly loved me then,
to fill the deep, dark emptiness
that you had seen within.
And while we loved and laughed and cried,
the summer's cool green grass
had withered, struggling, and slowly died
just as our precious moments passed.
And then you laughed, and then I cried,
and I am crying still,
because you left a deeper void
you'll never return to fill.
Painfully bad, I know. Fortunately, I no longer remember the passionate love affair that inspired this outpouring of pain. I can only hope that my poetry has improved a little since then!