My road is flooded
By the tears I have shed
And the blood I have bled.
I have drowned in darker sorrows,
Awoken to many disruptful tomorrows.
But you have stabbed me where it hurts,
Drained my will until the remains burst,
Called me dramatic,
But at this stage that is systematic.
I am sorry, is this a little to pragmatic?
Does the truth hurt?
Is it too ruthless and toothless,
left rotting by my Echoes of Insanity.
Laugh at me I snare,
I am gutless anyway,
Why should I care?
What am I if not a non rhyming, poetic failure without guts, left resting on the cuffs of dramatic overacting.