Writers don't move on.
They make love with solitude,
They take sorrow in their arms.
They run their fingers down grief's spine.
They touch words gently
And force themselves on a river of tears.
They let masochism win;
so when they bleed,
It's Utopia for them.
Writers don't move on.
They stumble on memories.
They recall something that was eons ago.
They embrace regrets
And make love with retrospection.
And when they do,
They make memories their concubine,
And then they sleep on past's lap,
Because they're writers
And writers don't move on...
