Dead or alive.
How can I know the difference,
either way, I've been "useful" all my life.
No love from life
nor life from love
until it was taken away,
by a man who's manipulation drove . . .
Tears I took for my savior
and joy from a dripping arm.
Crimson for my delicacy,
he claimed he didn't mean any harm.
His carnal needs only shoved
visions, a painful lance.
I will gladly fall from love
with a first and last glance.
Please save me from the ungloved,
forceful hands creeping down my intimates . . .
Is writing worth it anymore?