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While at the road— I write... this poem that came from my heart.
Typing words that deep inside made me sore, Hurting me to my very core.
Every thought of him is torture, It seems I've lost my future.
I'm a masochist for writing each letter that screams his name, It's never about the fame. He has driven me quite insane.
Nothing else now seems to matter, For too many questions needed some answers. Will I ever find another? How can I get better?
This pain that he caused, My whole being it enveloped. I feel nauseated for being encapsulated.
So I spill my hurt instead to breathe but my breath splattered out blood on my phone as I write down this poem. A poem that came from my heart's very core.
