Lately I've been going to sleep really depressed and it's made not only going to sleep hard but waking up as well.
You've been deemed unfit to love me since you can't seem to love anything that loves you back and I can't seem to get over that.
You built a stone wall around every feeling you ever had for me and i don't know if it's because I don't deserve them or you're afraid I do..
You used to help me get through every night but now you're the only one stealing my sleep and each night ends with an echo of you and I can't even remember what you sounded like next to me anymore.
I remember when you asked "what are you waiting for" and all I could say is "to be somebody that won't hurt you"
I know everything ends eventually and some people find comfort in that but I can't be ok knowing my time with you ended too.

We will forget the times I breathed your name into the sky
and made it rain.

The thought of you will become a ***** verse in the anthology of
apologies I figured in my sleep.

I will forget the touch of your skin
in the way you forgot how to love.

I woke up
with a little more life
with a little more light
to open up my eyes

and I see you there
and I understand
why I just don't care
about world's problems

'cause all I want is you
and all I need is you
my island of happiness
in the sea of loneliness

You kissed my cheeks
and you kissed my lips
and I must admit
my heart skipped a beat

and I closed my eyes
and see you inside
my own universe
my own paradise

I've always admired
the hands of a poet
fragile, yet capable of telling
the most breathtaking stories
and writing down
the most frightful thoughts
in the form of ravishing metaphors
so no one really gets
how dreadful they really are

the hands of a poet
can take you to a place
that’s constructed out of time and illusions
the hands of a poet
can lift you up
and make you fly
they can take you to the only place
that they would call shelter

I’ve always admired
the hands of a poet
because they can form the letters
so resolutely
while the words are still pondered about
they can make words look
like they’re on the right place

the hands of a poet
aren’t as damaged as their feelings
and unlike the mind of a poet,
they age
until the poet can’t write
the beautiful thoughts down anymore

A silence broken through memories.
Her seraphic voice called out;
“My friend, where have you been?”
We both have been through the mystery.
Now that the sour years have passed
Our splintered souls can swell again.

A shift in evidence.
The most gentle sound struck through the chaos.

Far Far away she lives
A little disturbed a little curled
Making her way in this big big world
She reads me like nobody else
Pulling me out from my little shells
She tell me things, No one else tells
Ring in my heart , a million bells
She want things
Things I can never give
Far far away she lives
Far far away she lives