I can't read about other poets and their love,
even the most creative pieces feel cliche'
compared to the words you used to write.
And pieces about broken hearts or depression
are so much more captivating than ever before.
Your ink tainted my ideals while your blood
darkened my perceptions of humanity. Words
lost their true meanings and reading between the
lines was the only thing I enjoyed - our inside jokes
and unkept promises showed up effortlessly.
It's all your fault that I've lost my will to poet,
that I refuse to read things laced in joy and
true museum style beauty, that nothing is
as interesting as it should be. You're like a god -
Good thing my religion doesn't have those.
No comments:
Post a Comment