the poet decorates rose scented words
for someone who resides in her heart
she talks highly of them in her poetry
she relishes playing the poet's part

as time goes on, the pages are filled
the someone has left, the poems remain
roses from her heart are all poured out
the love was lost, all that's left is pain

the feelings she weaved into her poems
were the feelings she longed to receive
the words of her poetry now run dry
for her pen and heart no longer bleed

and now that hope has turned to fatigue
she discovers a poet's greatest misery
of how they'll always play the poet's part
but can never be part of someone's poetry.