The Poet's Death

I am but a frail exterior of everything you've dreamed for me. I have wasted this life you have bestowed to me. I write but a fragment of the words you lay in my mind. A million lines of beautiful poetry lay dead at the bottom of the ocean that is my heart. I breathe without love, a sin for which I should've died long years ago. My hands create hate, while my heart is a murderer. All the good you've destined for me, and yet my words fall short night after night. My once clean slate has filled with evil intentions and lustful desires. But grace has fallen like a spring time rain, and I have bathed till my canvas was blank again, only to fall back into the mud that has plagued me for far too long. I know that you'll continue to forget the heartache that I cause time and time again. My heart is broken open with the continual pain of grief that comprises my daily existence. I stand alone, waiting for the briefest sense of peace to come and still my heart. Praying that the love of God would somehow penetrate my hardened heart.