What do you want me to write anymore? How much more should I bleed from my words for you to understand the depth of my desperation? I have puked out my molestation every night in a form of ink. My hands are no longer lucid; they are filled with filth of my own soreness and terror. I don't know how to help myself, all I'm doing is dragging myself down through this heavy ride, to be quite frank you were never the hero in my story. You just added more salt to the wounds,
you immersed more anguish in my soul.
YOU ARE READING
B A D
PoetryMy mind is dark, intensive and sexual. P.s: This is a mature content, and may get sexual at times. Please read at your own risk. Higest rank #10 as of 13/3, 18/3, 24/3 #9 as of 30/3 #6 as of 3/8 #3 as of 4/9 And #1 in sad poems tag 4/9
