Every night

I found a poem I did not write

With my own hand, cruel words of spite

Addressed to you, I did not send

My shattered heart I will now tend

Yet every night, roused from my sleep

I’ll wake to paper cuts so deep
I found a song I could not play

And from the stage, I slipped away

Denying notes I’d surely known

Molto allegro now disowned

Yet every night, roused from my rest

The forlorn melody beats in my chest

3 thoughts on “Every night”

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