The wintered path of truth I walk alone.
Our love was spat from your mouth like the taste of a borrowed cigareete.
Beyond our tomorrows I see no future, just one day of half eaten ignorance.
Your bliss, my torture.
You bestowed upon me the crown of gutters.
I am not real uttered from your mouth.
Slowly constricting my love into a plastic bag shaped like a lie.
Spilt milk gathers not the dust but mould from reason.
Your logic stemming from your self-confidence, equalling naught.
Check and mate my borrowed lover.
Place was our virtue but essence was your time.
I am no rich beggar, I am a second hand clock, broken yet ticking.
Take your brutality elsewhere.
Its a poem to my ex-girlfriend