I canāt believe it, how could she?
Bruises, cuts, all over me.
No apology, no sorry.
I try to forget, really try.
I try hard not to, but I cry.
I try to make my words flow now,
But my poetry is dead, left me.
I wept for my words, not my hurt,
I used to write my problems down,
Flowing, syllables, symmetry, simple,
Now my words are stuck, gone, missing.
I write things down, they rhyme for sure,
N...