I think too much on worthless days,
unable to crawl through this maze.
I’m tainted, wasted, hollowed out
filled to brimming with tears of doubt.
Your voice, on phone, rings so sweetly
and I am blind, crushed completely
in whispered, wilted, treasures kept
mangled, demented, while I slept.
Fractured pictures of you with her
when I know it’s me, you’d prefer.
Perishing in a grave of lies
bestowed on me with azure eyes.
Truth of variegated grief
leaving wisps of disbelief
foretold when you whispered, taboo:
“The problem is, she is not you.”
And I in true form, out of spite
said, “Darling, no. That is not right.
The problem is, will always be
you are still you, and I’m still me...”







And although it is a personal write, I thought it might be something you could relate to.




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