Dearest love, tell me why you're only an honest man when you're high,
remorse only visiting you during bad trips when suddenly you can't lie
to yourself and to me. Tell me why did random women get the best of you
and you only gave the dregs of yourself to me disguised as the finest brew?
Empty promises of love like broken tea cups litter the floor and I can't even cry.
About the Creator
R.C. Taylor
I write to invoke, to process, to honor, to resurrect, and—sometimes—to grieve but, above all, I write to be free.
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