Metaphor Ii Poem by Wilson Tinotenda Waison

Was it meant to be so complex tough
Or merely a battle ground of emotions
Both ends tires no difference so rough
Wrath and insanity to denote passions.

Was it meant to hurt the fregile hearts
Or merely a pledge deceitfully crafted
Both deeds so ablaze like flame heats
The burns and sores genuinly drafted.

Was it meant to inflict this much pain
Or merely a cut deeply across pulses
Both verge seems fatal with the strain
Minds no doubt twitching alike ulcers.

Was it meant to deprive each amour
Or merely a dirge of intmacy function
Both spells the rinsed felttip enamour
Mine heart bled from the faulty action.