Broken Hearted Poet

I wonder do you laugh at your creation, do you stand proud of the life you’ve taken.

Frankenstein’s monster, my stitches torn to pieces but my heart, ripped out, I gave to your hands.

You laughed in my face as you dropped it to the ground, such a fool you said to love another creature. My penance you said, as you stomped it to dust.

My greatest sin was to love you like no other. I should’ve known better than to fall in love with a succubus.

The sounds of silence echo so loudly in this empty room, so I sit at my desk with a pen to my head. I squeeze the trigger and shoot. My blood fills the pages, the tragedy of the broken hearted poet.

I will not cry, I will not give you the satisfaction. My empty promises spoken aloud.

The offense grows greater still. Even now this outlaw waits with hope that this nightmare will end and all the broken pieces will mend.

But truth can only be truth, so the lies I believe will wait forever, never come to pass.