pomegranate tears and deep dark fears

short poems: Part 8

Pretending I don’t have a hole in my head

Trying to find you so I can follow

But in reality I am dead

And my shattered heart is hollow

I suppose it was always meant to miserably fail

But I was hopeful our love wouldn’t turn stale

What do you do, when at the end of the day

When for nothing, you’ve paid

We condemn the dead

Because we’re ill in the head