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He was the knife that stabbed me from behind, The love that should never have been... The meaning to the word regret and every excruciating pain, I have ever felt.
He was the sword that killed me, Piercing relentlessly. His words were the ones that made me bleed, Paragraphs that killed.
Now that I'm dead on the inside, Walking with bleeding sides, And empty spaces... All I'm left with is the urge to haunt him with memories and give him fears till he shivers!
I'll make him remember, so as to make him suffer, Long enough for him to surrender, Till his limbs' strength is no longer. Even his muscles would fail and his knees would buckle, But nothing else would ever again matter, Not anymore.... For now that I'm gone, Not even the wind itself could dry these rivers of tears that I've shed.
Flooding up this earth with dark poems... Leaving traces of rusted words and bloodied ink mixed with sorrow and suffering.
