This is a bit I wrote at the end of a vicious emotional extraction, e.g. breakup, way back in my mid-twenties.
PBBFH = Psychotic Blond Bitch From Hell
~~~
Twilight finds me dyin’
from the daggers thrown by you.
Insinuation, lies, deceit
flowin’ blood, I’ve paid my dues.
I see a tear fall from a dark eye
shattering, it strikes the stone.
Your hands reach out to touch me
but grab the knife and twist it home.
The pain has spread, but all pain fades
memories of you are just a shade
of a need I licked, a fix I’ve kicked;
my thoughts of life no longer stick
on your love of jealous jade.
I’ve pulled the knife, healed my wounds
I smile and tilt my chin.
I check the blade, the one you picked
a narrow minded tongue of tin.
A dagger dull to a heart like mine.
I trace the scar and sure enough I find,
that I was only nicked.
Anonymole - apocryphal agitators 
“Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life. ”
― Lord George Gordon Byron
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… as if I’d fallen off a raw earth mine cliff into the pale blue, toxic water below; the plunge shooting water up my nose, into my brain, to explode as awareness. More and more I relate to Byron. Such a dude.
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Why poetry, for me, is something I thought about in my distant youth and put down. What has gone before and all that. I am a poet akin to buying a box of Betty Crocker mix and expecting the princess’s wedding cake.
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I like it. I can feel your pain.
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At the time, it was agony. Now? Yeah, I still miss that ache in my back.
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Anecdata:
noun: Anecdotal information gleaned from casual observation.
My life, in a word.
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