Is it wrong to wish; I couldn't read or write,
Because poems such as this; only bleed my life.

This gift god has given me; the ability to express,
Only brings me misery, it's killing me; oh yes.

To bleed these words; so painfully and slow,
For indeed these words; are pain to me to know.

For I have been drained; of ecstasy and passion,
I endure pain; you couldn't possibly imagine.

Only if "pain was love"; could I be the happiest man alive,
Instead this "game of love"; has caused my heart to die.

Oh how hard is this; to live the life of me,
The only heart to exist; that's deprived of a beat.

Believing that never could you; be so unkind,
But is ever so true; that love is so blind?

How could you laugh; when I constantly cry?
By you, my heart has been stabbed; and left to die.

It was your love I would find lethal; with my heart to aim,
Even so that blind people; could see the pain.

So dumb I must've been; believing love was sent to me,
Now no one I can trust again; my only friend is me.

For I'm at the worst of my spirit; because of love wrong;
It even hurts to hear lyrics; of a simple love song.

Love is not for me; that it has definitely shown me,
So this is the biography of the incredibly lonely.