Wednesday, September 9, 2015

To die without dying.

How happy must I be,
When I can not get hurt,
By hurting thy?

I am not myself,
Standing on the shelf,
I am lost,
Trying to find,
Direction.

Maybe in all the looks,
I forgot that,
It could be found,
Also by listening.

How happy must I be,
When I can not get hurt,
By hurting thy?

Is it rude to say,
That these tears are not,
For you, for them.

Yet for the death of,
Whomever,
I once was,
May she never be found.

Again.

The only magic left is art.


















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