A Final Word

A letter sleeps on my desk,

It speaks only scandals,

I haven't opened it in weeks.

This letter is dusty,

Dry.

A pain-staken shot,

Right between the eyes.

It is the bleak,

Misinformed fountain of youth,

Laughing at me.

As it aged it became,

The flesh eating lies.

The make-believe nirvana,

Of two twisted souls.

This letter fucked over,

Self-worth.

It snapped love's knees.

It is the crooked posture that taught me;

To hold my head,

Above my heart.

(Duplicity is a sour,

Half-Baked,

Bitch.)