Like the rose pricked from it's own thorns,
I have lead the rein to my destruction,
I cohabitate with loss,
That stems from my very own blood,
Thus my blood is a curse,
It heals,
And when I cut it,
is pours,
It lets me live and drown while ashore,
I am drowned in my blood
Yet my thirst isn't quenched

I keep feeling
Like I’m supposed to be waiting for something
Like I forgot to call someone
Or reply to a text
Like I have to say good night to someone
Perhaps I forgot to say good morning

But I haven’t talked to anyone
And there’s nothing I needed to do
Yet every time that feeling comes back
I think it’s because of you

God himself is his best creation,
A delusion so sublime,
It's comfort in pain,
Deemed as a symphony of insane.

I'll pour my bitterness in a presentable glass
To drink it again
Adjourned of hope fullness
As to saviour the taste of my destruction without impurity

She harpens the mute,
Which makes them sing their soul,
For within her poetry they find,
Their relentless souls,
Their relentless sorrows,
A whim of time induced fate,
To betray her,
For her to sow to no reap,
Within her bounteous heart such injustice couldn't seep,
So now she spills the nectar of her being,
She spill words of poetry,
She spill tears.

In my shackles I run free,
Miles and miles on the path of divinity.

In ill wit I find this life unfit,
Bequest of melancholy I admire,
For all left of us is dire,
A folks tale we learn to admire,
Akin to the play that plays in my mind,
Even with me as my possession,With my soul I hold no rhyme
Thus,
as realities prisoner I do not wish to retire,
The earth retraces it's history in satire,
Gods creativity I admire,
But confined to this rugged terrain I contrive,
An illness has warmed me and now in its grasp I lie,
An illness to betray that of which I find noble,
So now I grieve a lesson I don't want to learn.