They murdered the romantic in me,
cut him so deeply he had nothing left,
no blood or organs, no hopes or dreams,
leaving just this floppy lifeless thing.

One knife at a time, in each point
his heart’s affection would find
pure ******* and devastation,
stuck like a pig and drained

put on a hook of pain to be hanged,
one big heartbroken meat sack,
one more rejection like a sword
larger than expected but he took that.

The proffer of perfect prose and
presenter of poetic affection,
princely pauper pushing daisy daydreams,
with rose petal cliché schemes.

Pink prickles, portly pokers
that poked holes in his swollen
but oh so hollow heart.

Then in the end
this sloppy sack of skin
just up and blew away.