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.
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| The only magic left is art. |
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