Vindictive Poem by Deborah Cromer

If one time I wrote of horror and dread
Words of pain and sorrow, wishing to be dead
Believe always I write only of pages
A bizarre twist of darkness, passed down from the ages

Scorned, it was easy to write the worst
Of all damned to hell, to be forever cursed
Easy to turn a broken fingernail into a sawed off arm
Easy to make up things full of terror and harm

A talent to muse and keep the reader awake
To grip the reader, to grab hold and shake
Reaching the point of reality so close and so real
Overpowering a reading moment, seconds to feel

Exaggeration of what I know for some to be so true
I only invented ugly stories involving you
Your anger was there, but not used and out of control
I am so sorry for my words they took their toll

I was hurt and wrote very dangerous, bad things
My heart soared high, then you busted up my wings
I would sentence you to hell with what I would write
You killed me hard and fast when we had been so tight

My writing is not to be used to hurt anyone
It is really over, I am not with you, what is done is done