Tyler R. Martin
To all those who foolishly love me,
I know I put you through the ringer.
I put me through the ringer, too.
You worry about me, you stress yourself
In doing so, and
You honestly know nothing about the poverty
In the depths of my soul,
You scratch but the surface when you return my smiles,
Answer my phone calls in excitement
And take the consolation in my reassurances
That all is well,
All is well, I say,
Need not worry,
While inside, my black heart burns
And your heart, to me opens,
Willingly allowing me to abuse it.
I instinctually reach in and tear, bite off a piece and chew, then wash it down with a beer.
bourbon, cigarettes and syllables 