Love is the sickness. Love is the cure.
I cried out to God, And There was silence.
I feel that one never stops Loving their past loved ones. The nostalgia remembers all the Times when you slept in their bed, When you first opened up,
The wind Loves To boast of Fickle love, But my
With him, It’s like there were no scars. There are no sheepish looks No burning shame. There was no John
I cannot bring myself to cry. I can’t decide if this is a curse Or a blessing.
I find it funny That I raised myself From the cradle To the grave. I never got a chance to be a baby.
I lost my innocence On a king-sized sheet With four posters And the two of us. Just the two of us
When you taste your own sweet tear… Know I’ll be there. When the night becomes a friend, Know
If flowers could cry, Would the water out-spilled Also drown them Like a sloshing grave of Wet mud?
I came back from a mortal hell, But on my way home, I saw no white god, And I saw no golden spirit, And I saw no true son.
I feel under-appreciated. Isn’t that vain to say? That might just be my Napoleon co…
If only My tears were colors. There would be pink on my pillow And green on my shoes. There would be red on the paper
I died on Tuesday. My soul floated up Above my milky corpse, And I smiled. I saw my family,
She fell like rain, Like a bird, Like a comet chasing light, Like a star dropping from the nigh… Like a stone in water,
