There’re words this poet writes, he dares not read.
Cruel words, cut out from kernel of his creed.
Wounding words, yet precious as a daughter,
Composed with blood, written on the water.
Poured out at the behest of poet’s muse,
Laments for love, the poet once did lose.
From time when her sweet form would crucify,
like grieving ghost, she’d menace his mind’s eye.
These woeful words, he then would weep as tears.
Their conversations from those youthful years
they would beat and bruise his heart like hammer
till poet could not speak, only stammer.
About these wretched words I can\'t come clean.
Dear reader, read them in the lines between!
For they were words that she last spoke to me.
This lover’s brokenhearted legacy.
Her words: “I cannot do this anymore.”
They’ve punched a hole, so pain, at last, can pour.
On this page, my shattered soul is spilling.
Be kind, dear friend, pray for a mercy killing!