I write poetry because I love it. I don't share it often, but here lately I have found myself sharing more and more. Along with poetry, I love the idea of love; however, I'm not the type of person to wear rose-colored glasses. Love can hurt, or so I'm told. So, I guess that is where this came from; that simple idea.
I remember when loving you was easy.
A part of my daily routine,
just as brushing my teeth, or taking my pills,
or painting my lips a rose-colored pink.
A home-cooked meal on a Sunday afternoon.
A glass of red wine on a Monday evening.
A cheesy rom-com with a cliché ending.
You felt like a road trip, hand on thigh, beautiful view.
You felt like a poem,
a home.
But lately loving you has become a task.
An exam that I have studied for
but can never score above average.
An essay that I have written
but with grammatical errors and repeated words.
A book that I have read
but the last page is always missing.
An unanswered phone call.
A "save as draft."
A home that was once mine,
but I have received the eviction notice.