A sonnet

Pain is the only love that I have known.

It is empty, bloody and rotten to the core.

Yet for some reason I keep asking for more.

As I exist in the darkness all by my own.

All the wounds that I have sown.

All gotten on this hellish moor.

The blood yet spilt upon the floor.

While I sit upon this ghoulish throne.

The jet black heart ripped from my chest.

Emptiness now in both body and mind.

Now not anything like mankind.

The appearance thrown away as a pest.

How come no one ever sees me?

I guess I have simply ceased to be.

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