Dead stories surround me on the hardwood floor.
Innocent casualities of my own personal war.
Meaningless words bled onto page after page
Cliche memoirs of pain and rage.
My weapon, the pen, destroyed life after life
Commiting more sin then any gun or knife
Worlds of beauty, of perfection, of love
Become as impure as the death of an innocent dove
Tied to my pages are my attempts for relief
Attempts to survive and write out my grief
Hundreds of stories, never the same
Accusing me of playing some hideous game.
Their voices and echoing screams reveal
A peircing wound that I can never heal
Forgive me, my stories, for the hell I have brought
Never again shall a battle, with this pen, be fought.
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