I know you won't read this anyway.
Or say what you may want to say.
I don't even know why I write today,
other than extinguish the pain in my way.

What is there to write about?
I can barely even rhyme anymore.

You're watching a writer dying...
The life he once lived going away...
He still loves to write but can't...
and that's why he's saddened deeper than before.

I lost everything again...
stolen by a fake hearted dark one.
Now I know nothing like I did before.
Money all gone thanks to her.

She changed and I left broken.
Now I'm not leaving here anymore.
If they can't come to me then **** 'em....
I won't love no more.

I can't because I was left cold.
I was left to die,
kicked out of my own place called home.

Now what was I suppose to do?
Run back to my family?

These are my thoughts and many.
Like my mind always is...
I want to finish my story...
But no heart left to write it now.

My powder is fine powder,
like I said just days before.
And it's all thanks to this life,
and a dark haired fakely ****ing whore.

I just might have my writing still,
as it's like how I use to be.
It refuses to die as well...
But someday it will you see.

I don't want that day until,
my book is finished and published that time.
I guess I'll finish this thought for now...
and end this poem with my simplistic ryhme.


"Why are you not normal? You seem normal to me?" "That's because I never chose this normal looking self. It's the person inside of me that is as abnormal..."

-A conversation between a girl I once worked with-