penfeind

And when he’s gone
I will not morn
my morning would be born of selfishness
Instead I chose to miss him
My morning has been done
His spark has been gone for years now
And the sadist part of all
Is he knows it too
He sits around and waits to die

OtherWorlds

A sad poem, penfeind. The only things I notice you might do differently is to add some punctuation here and to spell "morning" as "mourning". (And, of course, "morn" as "mourn".)

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Capricious Quills:
A resource for writers of fantasy and paranormal romance.