Writing is the truth,
love.

The woman who's got your heart,
won't let go.

You'll run, but she'll own you,
always.

On everything else, your energy's
wasted.

But this *****, she's *****,
plays nasty.

"She'll con you into thinking,
she can save you."

"She'll ******* 'till sunrise,
leave you empty."

"She'll **** your brain,
leave the pain."

On the way out, she deposits
a couple something's.

Something for you to maintain
'till the next time around.

But with each go of it, less and less of you
remains.

Writers are useless things,
perfect slaves.

Horrible lovers,
melodramatic *******.