There is no love lost for words,
from mouth and pen, they fly like birds,
as if forgotten, repeated, again and again.
For If they do not, depression sets in.
At least that's the way it's always been.
When we let our ego be our guide.
Better to hide our lost pride, than
proclaim our great lost love, forever.
Tattoo it on your arm,
cause great harm,
to yourself and those around you.
After all you are the center of the universe.
A sort of perverse curse that you nurse,
decrying your broken spirit forever.
Time to crawl out of that hole you're in,
get a new life and seek some sin.
Forget that you're ugly to the core,
accept your faults and you will score.
No use living your life in tears,
falling down drunk from too many beers.
Pull yourself up and get yourself out,
time to scream, time to shout.
No time left for lost love's pain.
Only the time that you have left in vain.
So get out and splurge and spend your worth.
But save your money for your time on Earth.