First Love

Kronic writer was I once,
Before I did have life.
Line by line were filled
With words of blood and knife.

Back before I met you
I had fears and dreams.
Now happy with you again
He words have left it seems.

While sitting in rooms of dark
Hands wrote, but not from me,
As if I was somehow possessed.
Blindly writing what I could not see.

Maybe depresses I was
For I wrote of darkness.
But I truly enjoyed
Writing of tears and fists.

I now do have you
But departed did my rhyme.
And all my beloved words
As I saw the signs.

I miss my first love.
A love that was not the same
As you and I. But the bond
Of the writer and the insane.