I have written letters
Addressed to you
But you’ll never see,
A word of what is
Written, the damages
You’ve caused to me.

Every line, it breaks
and melts into a
Pathetic blurry mess;
For all I try to stop
Them, my eyes don’t
Cease to undress.

Maybe you could
Feel those blotches
Under your fingers,
Maybe somewhere deep
Inside, the goodness
In you still lingers.

But blind as you are
As a stone; you’ll never
Feel my pain.
Yet carve me from
Inside out into an
Existence of bane.

You make me wish
I was numb, too, with a
Heart so icy cold.
But when I look at you
I see a foolish man who
Cried when he struck gold.


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