Devoid of artistry.
Words become annoying,
they be meaningless,
wrung out.
Wrested,
yes wrested,
words only wound
the already injured heart.
Artless tales relate,
read my misery.
All artless,
without
you.
Devoid.
Empty.
Meaningless,
without
you.

­*Тадеус

He told me that I
Was his little secret  
I told him that he
Was worth the pain  

He told me that I
Could hold his hand
I told him that he
Could bring me shame

And I know that it's wrong
And I know I should change  

But the words that he said
They drove me insane  

And I know that it's wrong
And I know I should change  

But  

He told me that I
Was his sweetest pain
I told him that he
Was my best mistake  

He told me that I
Could be his favorite lie
I told him that he
Could make me cry..

My mind haunt me again,
no reprieve that I
see in sight.
With heart
aching so badly,
in seeing shorter days.
Light of day end
so quickly,
and misery
pursue
for
weeks.
The silver rose has bloomed
and will not blossom 'til spring.
Withered petal long blown
in winds and decayed.
Ruined are my dreams
that lay scattered about me.
Just like withered petal,
I am softly in misery.

*Тадеус

White are the barren trees
and covered are the boxwood
in ice and snow,
they sleep.

Тадеус

There by the lane,
an old house stand tall.
Amazing enough close to road,
but many vines and shrubs set it back farther.
In need of roof paint and repair,
still a family lives in house by lane.
Family not wealthy, but love dwells there,
and call house by lane their home.

Тадеус