I don't write poetry, there is no paint and art, this is a stashed cache of words tainted with pain and blood,

have you ever wondered what to feel when you are told,
that you cannot ever be loved by a person, not even one more fold?
that you cannot ever be loved more than how much you love them,
have you brooded then on those thoughts that stem?
and wondered if it meant good or if it meant that your heart will be more often a desert,