A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret suffering, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and cries escape, they sound like beautiful music. | Kierkegaard
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Sunday, February 13, 2011
LOVELESS
Sleeping with my eyes open
my vow,my oath,my promises
slowly entered and spoken
some sad melodies from their life
And they have punctured my throat
Leaving me half alive
thousands of butterflies flew away
from my opened wound
Whispers in the wind foretold my destiny
And I fell,Crawling like a lunatic
weeping like a widow
with bloodshot eyes
As my tears hit the soil
thorns began to emerge
impaling my skin
turning me into an infinite rapture
How much more will i take?
How many lives must i break
in order to satisfy you
still,you are hungry for more of me
Immortality is too much to ask
Ill set you free and wear this mask
But the question is,
Why are you still with me?
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