and my heart is at war with feelings.
I feel stung by a stiletto; the shadows bellow,
as I'm slowly being consumed by my own breathing.
My passion for rhyme is now dead,
and I'm forgetting everything that I once said.
I was once called a Picasso of words
because they thought I was the best,
but my will is dead and so is the rest.
Pen to paper but I can't hear my melodies,
they call it writer's block but where is the remedy?
In the end could this be my destiny?
a dead passion that will remain only a memory?
My heart is broken and my soul is crying,
tell me why I should keep on trying?
She never really cared so why did I keep fighting,
Devastated pain can be felt when I'm sighing.
I have given up on everything that was once a choice,
I've lost my will, my passion and my poetic voice.
My pen is broken and the ink I used is dry,
because my heart is finished; and there are no more tears to cry.
I bleed when I breathe,
I cry when I sigh.
Thoughts of her remains,
but why did she lie?
The serenade has ended,
The melodies are diminished.
I wish that before I had left it,
now my heart is broken and finished.
No revival for a dead passion,
I've crossed the point of no return.
these are my final words as my soul is ashen,
forever in the old flames I shall burn.