I dip this quill in red ink,
Proceed to put words to my misery.
Did you for a moment think?
Before your knife-like words stabbed me.
The ink is blood from that wound,
I can make words my weapons too.
For your smile, I once swooned,
Now all I want is to badly hurt you.
We have dug each other’s graves,
Of love’s sweet fruit we’d had a taste,
But our past tastes like sour grapes.
We build our coffins with great haste.
The greatest romances end in death,
So please tell me how this is any different?
Now as we take our last breath,
The end looks like an angel that God sent.