If They Did Not Loved Me This Much Poem by A.R. Brixton

If I write, then I write
And the words
Small letters, alone meaningless

Construct the stream
Of thought, silently
A sign reflects the mind,

And again, it withers
In front of my eyes
Drops dead

Such as autumn leaves
Those, fall onto me
And like them, I die.

Ah! If they did not
Loved me this much,
Then I wouldn’t.

Pick them up,
Take them in my heart
Forever,

Such as words,
I bear, I kill,
I change and change.

For that is what we do,
Pathetically,
Day after day.