I cower, used and empty.
The grit of rejection stinging in my eyes.
I should have lied,
Told you I was innocent, harmless.
Are lies better than the truth?
Only to the weak.
Your harsh words bruised my spirit,
Buried my soul,
Painful as a sandstorm.
Why the necessity
To discard your only companion?
I told you the truth,
Only to find
Accepting truth was your weakness.
Leave a Reply.
Well, as the title says, I may never be a writer, but who knows what my brain holds. I'll just let it seep out onto this page now and then. It's a bit of a scary thought.