Here we go again.

a cliche to title
a phrase I hate
this internal battle
of emotional weight

I slept it away
twelve hours of worth
and now I can say
that was it's birth

words now come easier
than two years before
this dark cloud of pain
when I could write no more

my couplets of blood
flow freely from wound
when whispers of love
no longer heard crooned

destruction is that
which brightens the heart
kills inspirations
it silences my art

desperation, desire,
despair is my soul
with joy, I am nothing
with hatred, I'm whole