Buried in the annals of all the times we were in love
A poetry of sadness is akin to an offshore oil rig
Standing tall against the unforgiving storms of peril
Yet each verse I spin is sapping the black gold from the hearth of it all
Only to burn my soul further, kindling its pain and unease
If you knew it, you would feel its heat, empathize and be hurt
So I mask these verses in unintelligible words and metaphors
You could gloss over these, cast it into the sea of your 'un-wanting to knows'
I wouldn't fret, for the poems have no need of acknowledgement, not from you or else
But I would be mindful to thank you, above the others
They couldn't have breached the walls I had built around myself
There have been a multitude of poems, at best a barrage of them
Most scribed around the feels of your mind numbing parting, or waywardness
Here I go again into the mindless seas of impeccable self harm
Drilling for more, and harming my self
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