Poem,
You spoke of love,
You never meant it, it seems.
You spoke of happiness,
Your own at my expense,
Of morals: virtues,
As long as they were mine.
Your own virtues, hidden, latent in some distant desert swirling land,
Forgotten, along with me, my ashes, but a song to thee.
And I sit here, broken in you,
Living my life, trying but to spite, upsetting you,
Showing what is mine, and is not yours,
And I cry, As I realise this,
I live to spite you,
Not to aid me.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment
No spam, junk, hate-speech, or anti-religion stuff, thank you. Also no libel, or defamation of character. Keep it clean, keep it honest. No trolling. Keep to the point. We look forward to your comments!