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Counting for Nothing by tightwhitepants, literature
Literature
Counting for Nothing
Fourteen hundred paces wasted
walking to your door,
and every time a pointless pounding
headache - sore, resounding, raw;
what follows next? as you'd expect
a shocking exhibition of
that bloody mix of tears
and spit and semen spilled
across this gritty floor.
and from the day that we last spoke
I've counted twenty-four.
How come I'm your ignored -
you must have grown so bored of me
and now my fingers, gnawed and nails all bitten
paw through scores
of letters better left unwritten -
never sent, now torn and scattered, littered
with my bitter thoughts unuttered,
so utterly distraught I am, I poured a litany of scorn
and lo
