This is the last poem that will be writ,
By my hand. My mind needs to prohibit,
My honest emotions from creeping out,
It will only hurt me, I have no doubt.

My poetry was for a certain muse,
I found out it was nothing but a ruse.
Telling how I felt was the hardest thing,
Now it was all for utterly nothing.

You were my first love, now gone like the rest.
I only wish that you may have the best.
Why bother with the past, what’s done is done.
You were right, you only cared about fun.

This is the final poem I will write.
Now I will lay up my final graphite.