Trauma to my pen tip.
No:
no, no, no.
See, we’ve done this before.
dear_johnson.
Sitting in the same spot hours upon hours
Paying homage to a life now gone.
Pausing.
As I ponder
on the logic of my nonsense.
How, I
vomit over hours of us talking of our youth: thus.
The blueprint began here.
And the truth is.
No one can invoke a host of notes from me, and hope to get the most from me; as we had.
My only battle, was spent battling
against the odds, to stand tall despite
my focus lost.
But
Now I mourn.
You’ve left me alone to roam weakly.
Seeking helplessly to retrieve what we had achieved
That we, as in team, split seam.
It just keeps happening. .
Now I can only dream of what used, to be.
War is what you make it out to be,
And the battles of my soul are a concrete example of the damage
that have hammered my life six feet deeper than the man above, or the one beneath me.
My eyes leaking:
and the residue acidic.
A reminder of the toxic life
I’ve laid to rest.
Still easily you hear my cries from beneath the tides of pain and iniquity
Hemorrhaging of black or blue.
Yet the true intent lies deep within
As an empty pen bleeds constantly
Upon wide ruled paper like a dear john letter
left incomplete.
dear_johnson 
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