Pain, is it truly?

Memories of an old flame, maybe? I wrote this freed from thought so I can't really remember.

"It hurts, my heart aches" 

Or so that was what she wrote, 

"I have scars that only breaks" 

Followed by a repetitive, idiotic quote. 

Amongst the messenger birds, 

Lay many such childish rubbish, 

"OMG, why does this happen to me?" 

Endless torrent of meaningless words. 

"Sometimes you just have to let go..." 

Blabber he did on the vast word sea, 

Left and right, 'pain' is all I see, 

Nothing but usual trash flow. 

Pain is but these people see, 

Their hearts were played by she or he, 

Love they have been denied, 

For fates unfortunate, they cried. 

Thrashed around, eaten with stew, 

Sliced up and hung by sinew, 

Beaten into blisters, clawed with steel, 

All their emotions feel 

Yet true pain is not to be played with, 

Neither is it to be thrown out, 

It is far from it, 

A darker fate  awaits without doubt. 

To be damaged, it needs to be acknowledged, 

To be discarded, out of hands it is shaken. 

But true ache lay on not existing, 

As if your presence is for to be forsaken.  

Author's Note

This is an experimental writing style and grammaring. The content itself is also quite flimsy. Do tell me of any discontent in a manner that does not emulate toddlers raised by cave trolls.