tortured poet

i used to tell you how much i loved writing— poetry, the melancholic type of art. and each time your eyes were pleading; i'd read a piece straight from my heart. each syllable touched a familiar bruise, one i never thought would be so much to take. you touched it like a poet touches his muse, but every brush only brought deeper ache. i didn't realize i'd be living out the words i used to write about. was never warned i'd be the victim of the very poems i used to dream.