Untitled.

bitter and black and blue and bleak
are words that i’d use to describe this thing.
it bursts with blood and love that sings;
it’s always the core of poetry.
people who think and write
like me will use the same
words to describe this thing.
somber words explain this well
because it’s been mangled
and hurt and left to swell.
now i’ll say what it is,
and i know that i’m dumb,
i’m just a teenage boy
filled with a lot of glum.
don’t worry i’ve learned how to mend
it by now, although scarred and
destroyed by what meant a lot,
like no acceptance from mum or  
watching someone die or
love unrequited from the person who was.
this thing that is bitter and bleak
as can be: it’s my heart, 
which was once pure and innocent
as a fool could be.