the determined terror and pain
the cliché of punctures and stabs
all the same words of wounds
wisdom has deserted me
and all i’m left with is guilt
casting an injury hurts as equally as the cut received
now i lie in my desolate pit
unmoved, frightened to make another move
dazed as the sun sets to nights and nights grimace
as the shadows dance up the ceiling
tumbling and rumbling their next decree
no ease, no peace
the torment’s a constant spitfire
no extinguisher for relief
no meds, no prescription to atone
all that’s wrong with me
my heart has shattered and i miss you more
the dark calamity without a lead
the trial of our hearts and my felony
dig my self a hole where i will rest for a while
stocked with belligerent feelings and heed

© simon whittle — from lovers’ tiff: a ballad