Background filled with
the steady beats of the drums
yet my handwriting
consists of shaky lettering
and wet tear drop stains

These are my letters
hopelessly written
on a piece of scrap paper
never to be seen by another

I bathe my heart
in this dry darkened ink
soaking in all of the dye
and slowly poisoning
myself to my death

I fully know what I say
won't be read
won't be spoken
will not be shared
yet I miserably continue
to contain the pain

And when I try to write it all down
and I have no clue what to say
my anger takes over
and I keep on throwing it away

My letters aren't important
these words aren't important
because my life isn't important
to the recipient
if my nonsense.