Fickle sentiments with rusted diamond edges,
he said she said metronome bullshit breaking waves,
dividing in measured wedges.
Diatribes and verbal lacerations,
hurt soaked souls harmonizing in
beatdown rhythms instead of conversations.
You don’t know the depths to which I’ve gone,
the lengths of patience for love
you feel mislead like this was a siren song.
The end is racing towards us brutal fast
the thought that hateful statements
might be the last interaction is the worst
a feeling like nails in spine
an unending panic attack.
To Ink - a blog from Melting Neurons 