My heart is corrupt inside and out
True on most parts I give more love that others
On the inside deep within, my soul is in a love drought
Every day and every night my mind and heart bouts
Every minute of the day, I think about my morals and know I am good but in the end I go into a deep doubt
When I dream, I dream so morbidly that rarely do I remember them, and it tortures me, somewhat like mental gout.
When I get sad and mad, I constantly wonder what I am mad and sad about
Every problem I encounter I try to fix it with angry shouts
But my mind continues to insinuate
So thus when I write this poem, I ponder if I should make it public or burn it as its essence lingers
Now I must fight my mental debate