·˚ ༘ ➳〔selfish love is still a kind of love〕 ࿐ ࿔:🖇
Don't look at me like that, I am not a saint
So don't you dare my martyrdom to paint,
I am just another writer, another poet
Sent on this Earth to live and write torment.
I love my poems more than I love my muses
Because when they at my hands hurt, I'm inspired,
I touch with my finger the blood that drips from their bruises,
It is so good to sometimes feel desired.
So, love him? Oh, I never decided, no
But, in the end, he was what I wanted though,
Sad it is he was never someone, but something
A prize to be won, but now he's just nothing.
So, love him? No, I didn't even like him.
Love me? Yeah, doesn't sound like him.
And still, I begged of him, he begged of me
"stay, stay", but we hurt and we both could see
That he was never someone, he was a story
I just wanted to live, so, no, I'm not sorry,
And maybe we overthought this a little too much
And now we can hardly breathe when the other is out of touch.
The truth is simple, I never liked him, not a lot
But, like all my muses, in my heart, he took a spot
I'm overthinking, now he's driving me insane
Because I want to love him, but I can't even say his name.
YOU ARE READING
Of sweet and sour - poetry book
Poetry...and maybe sometimes words and paper are enough to heal a wounded heart
