by Kelly Foster
Maybe it was once.
But not now.
Now I walk freely
searching for myself.
An old scrapbook lies on the floor
I don’t want to witness a hue in someone I once liked from disillusionment.
I’m not a collection of diamonds
but my worth is as precious
I’d like to discover how to let love leave
as easy as it was to let him in.
After my last mark on paper
what’s the today I will let the words decide?
By what I’ve written
maybe my life will proceed in poetry and paragraphs.
After my last birthday, I am scared
no one will read my poetry.
Perhaps I am scared of the dark
Someday I think we would all like to know that light at the end of the tunnel.