In hell I roam.
For that is life, is it not?
A living hell in which we must reside.
A place of sorrow, a place with no joy.
A place where pasts haunt a lonely path.

I live in a sea.
A sea of people, but I'm just pretending.
Pretending to be something I'm not.
Hurting and crying from the depth, yet no one echoes in response.

I believed.
Yes, indeed, I speak in past tense.
I believed in something that never followed through.
I believed in people who fed me lies.

I was hurt.
Hurt by the one person who should have loved.
Not loved the way he did.
Loved the way a brother should love his younger sister.
Instead, he loved in a way the scared.

I don't regret.
Regret is such a strong word.
I wonder what life would have been like, but no regret do I hold.
The past is what brought me to this moment.

The moment where I can look at the people who have stayed in my life, and not regret where my path has brought me to.
To look and see that what happened six years ago, made me stronger.
It made me hurt, and it makes me suffer still.
However, it brought me to a place where I had no choice but to turn around and run.
It brought me to freedom.
I was chained, but now I'm free.

No, I regret nothing.
Just wonder what it might have been.

Never fall in love with a poet
for their words are sometimes lies
on occasions they're a shield
on occasions a disguise

They will take you on a journey
upon which they bare their soul
in a bid to ease your burdens
in a bid to make you whole

But in every word they choose
for the stories that they tell
lies a little piece of heaven
and a little piece of hell

Tormented souls we poets are
sometimes quite broken and despaired
in search of lost expressions
missed by others who once cared

Never fall in love with a poet
unless you're prepared to share their pain
to hold them close on the darkest nights
over and again