November Blues

I'm a sucker for the broken
The bruised is like a potion
Corrupted by the pain
An illusion  of a gain

The need to fix is my next fix
Words hurting "just for kicks"
Simply leaving never works
Guarantee it always hurts

Words like poison on your tongue
Love songs always gone unsung
Never what you want to hear
Reuse to shed one fucking tear

Waiting is like a slow death
Sucking out your soul till nothing's left
A curse you always can predict
Seeming to be on the hunt for conflict

Everyone said Poets had it Easy

If you let it, some poetry will kill you from the inside out. Before you even realize or have a chance to stop it, it'll turn your heart into stone while cutting off your brains control and access to your tear ducts and you'll be a heartless, crying mess. Poetry is like a hard drug you can't quit, always looking for the next fix. Even though you know it's terrible for you and going to ruin you, you'll search for it everywhere, hastily and obsessively, like the worst kind of addict. It will make a mess of you and you will make a mess of it, looking like a drunk stumbling out of a bar at 2am. Closing time, there's no room in here for love.