Trashy Poetry I write

1.

One morning I decided I wanted to write a poem.
I didn't have anything to write about though, most my memories have been taken from me.
Torn away through my broken self.
Replaced with the hollowness I must live with.
I realised I'd be no good.
How can one write a good poem with no passion?
No drive or meaning behind the words.
Without, it's nothing more than words on a page.
Words.
People often tell me that my actions speak louder than my words.
Yet my actions never seem to match.
My actions end relationships I cared for.
The words I plead with, never enough to sow the broken heart.
I don't know why I fail so harshly, why I ruin those I love most.
I'd never hurt them on purpose.
Never raise a hand on them.
Somehow I always mess it up though.
It's always my fault.
If only there was someone who could explain why.