Burnt Offering

Lame lyrics of lost love penned by sweatered sirens deep as divots, shallow as puddles Doesn’t teenage angst get old by the time you’re thirty? I’d think so, yet the lackeys lap it up like maple syrup I derive my dirges from a deeper well dredging the depths the abyss of my essence bringing it to the surface in buckets thick as black molasses ponderous to pour, painful to process Reopening every wound Exposing each scabrous scar My lifeblood spread in red puddles on the floor until I’m drained dry and there’s no more not a drop remaining to be wrung out of me Bruised, broken, and sore I struggle to strike the match setting it all afire throwing myself on the pyre