Like your instrument of choice,
you beat me until I tore.
You used me for your entertainment,
now this drum will beat no more.
Promising I had made good music,
you took me to the curb.
Evidently not good enough to mend
so that my music could be heard.
The hole your beatings tore into me
could have been easily mended.
Instead, you let me sit on the curb alone,
warding off those who had intentions.
You let them take me away with the trash,
so I guess my sound just wasn't right.
But with minor tweaking around the edges,
I could have played through the night.
But like your instrument of choice,
you took your anger out on me,
never caring how I might feel,
or all of the potential I had to be.
Since now I am worthless to you
and you lied and chased off others
I sit in this wasteland of brokenness
ever without hope to recover.
E J Royson
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