love is a cruel mirage;

and my aching body coheres

my soul is bone-weary, 

Boundless between the depths of my heart, and this pen,

There has never been less friction between paper, and the tip of this led.

An adolecent thought once anchored

In the deepest, darkest, dustiest corners of my mind

Has morbidly blossomed to the forefront of my scalp.

My thinking is forever fogged from the abyss of raw wounds, 

Because my heart is eternally flogged--emotionally doomed.

Maybe not tomorrow, but today I'm convinced

Of sick sabatoge;

Love is nothing

more than a cruel mirage.