The Lost Story

Authors quick note: The non-rhyme style is beginning to become more addictive. Most likely, because it's more of a challenge.

A story is written,
With my own blood,
How I have failed to live a life with valor,
And an overwhelming lack of pride.

Sorrow harshly takes my heart into its deadly grip,
Stabbing me effortlessly with its weaker hand,
Drawing blood from the fragile shell.

Feeding off me so much and begging for more
To my unfortunate demise,
Success is reluctantly given,
But never received.

There is nothing that could lift me higher,
As I stand on the razor-edged shards of broken glassed emotions,
But pain is no more,
For I am merely numb.

And the book that is never opened,
Is thrown to the fires of despair.