To think of anything creative would take too much energy.
To try to resurrect whatever is left inside me would be a true waste.
To make sense out of the mess that has been left to rot would just erase the bit that's left.
To find satisfaction from the peace I find, the solitude I welcome, no need.
To plea for a new companion would be pathetic. Too pathetic.
To find hope in what is left, is far from empathetic.
From what I see, we are all diseased.
From what I can tell, we are all just burning in our own individual Hells’
From where I stand, I can’t seem to find one decent man from the pile before me.
From where I breathe, I can’t seem to fathom an idea without your name but that's going to change.
From what people have exclaimed, I’m an obsessive whore.
From what I take blame for, is allowing you to kiss that bore of a girl.
What I can say, is that I’m sorry for putting on this ridiculous display of grief.
What I mean by all this is that I take back all those thoughts, all that yearning.
What I understand now is that you are not coming back for me.
What I can comprehend currently is that I was the starting piece, not the ending to this vile equation.
What I’ll allow, is for you to take your finishing bow, leave the stage that is my theatrical life.
What I’ll miss, is those kisses on the neck.
What I’m joyous for , is to never be trapped inside the core of your thoughts, your shifting, manipulative thoughts.
What I want you to get from this, is starting now and forever, you won’t be missed.