The Servant

Poem after poem after poem.

It isn't that hard.

Speaking from the cold

the cold depths of my heart.

The pulse is still there,

along with the vibe.

But the part I miss most

is back when I had not yet

said, goodbye.


You see there,

a hurt part of me that I put on myself.

It came in the poem, right out of thy self.

Your humble servent, left you hanging.

By the tree, he drinks away.

Away with his life, thats gone astray.

Oh please, PLEASE!

Don't you see


A hurt poem comes from a hurt heart.

So if your really going to ask me,

don't is my plea.

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