No one cares about what you write
Your writing is just a crazed infatuation
Brought about by bouts of anger
The paper in front of you is just a blank reflection of what you are
Rip her to shreds
Throw in the rubbish bin
Splash
They're good at bringing about tears
So it goes to show
They can see right through your irrational fears
Widow spiders crawling across the windowsills
Scuffling up the abandoned bar and bar stools
The basement is the back of your mind
Not quite forgotten
Where murky things lie in wait
Don't stare at them
They'll stare right back at you