Sunday, November 17, 2002
when I write, my pencil breaks against the paper/ thoughts pulled from vapor, I'm a mental illustrator/ I only got one thing on my head like Frida Kahlo/ it's my sickness to spit on the pity in which I wallow/ why at present are these eyes of mine broken?/ miracles are veiled and my sight is un-opened/ to put it this way, I'm always caught looking back/ left living hopeless, you only see what you lack/ from misfortune's lips, no one craves a kiss/ but discontentment is the flaw we mar ourselves with/ peace passes to chaos and emptiness is felt/ wounded by the world, but some damage is self-dealt/ flay my heart with sorrow and seek drink as my vice/ is hitting bottom loathing compassion and life?/ God grant me hope, because everything is empty/ save me with love, as this bitterness tempts me... Inspired by this. |
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in?scrip?tion (n-skrip-shun)n.
the facts.
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