Regrets

That's the dream killer, the scene stealer, the thing that will snuff your spirit and crush your soul. 

You gave up, spit on your own image, and called it vile. It was empty and foul. It was born out of boredom and once given breath; butchered its creator with a smile. 

it's not all flowers and sunshine, or intense flaming passion; sometimes you are just broken over and used, given nothing and taken from by indifferent brutes. 

I had something beautiful here once, but the vowels ran away with the idea, and the only the hard sounds remained.

The paper, once soiled, had no more opinions on the matter, and let me pollute the space with dirty words, and pained images.

I caved to the temptation and wrote.