Dead Talent

My poems are nonsense,
Full of empty words,
Broken promises,
And truthful lies,
That look at the world,
In a twisted way,
Like seeing through,
Shards of glass,
Taped together.

Darkness shrouding,
Eyes cloaked,
With a dismal grey,
Rain running down my cheek,
Like the tears I wish would come,
But nothing is left,
Any form of brilliance,
Or a slice of talent,
Bit off and taken,
Leaving words.

So slow to speak,
A poem by a freak,
It is I, freak the dead,
Welcome to my cemetery,
Of dead letters,
Too many bright things taken,
The grave robbers have stolen,
Nothing is left,
Except the dead cold,
Emotionless sentances.

Capped off with commas,
Sitting at the end,
Waiting for a new line to start,
Or the old lines to end,
Poems of love and hate,
Poems of lust and anger,
Mine sit outside the circle,
Poems of life and loss,
Poems of regret and mistakes,
Those real life things.

I write on in a dismal way,
Dreary floating on,
A poem after the other,
A dead talent,
Still proceeding,
Down the road of nothing,
Getting to the path of no where,
Finding the street of dead,
And taking a break,
Just sitting there.