i wander through the forest of forsaken dreams,
under the dim light of the red stars.
And i'm shocked by what I see,
bodies,
blood,
scars.

they're gone. They're truly gone.

I hold myself together and shed my soul,
into the lake of silent spirits.
And the water reflects my face,
and I'm shocked by what i see,
hatred,
anger,
ugliness.

I don't want to be a writer.
I don't want to starve,
I don't want to go mad -but maybe I'm already there-,
I don't want to commit suicide,
I don't want to be homeless,
I don't want to be alone.
I don't want to be a writer.
What do writers gain?
Judgments, madness, aching heart and pain?
Tell me, what do they gain?
I don't want to be a writer.
I want to be nothing.
But what is life without literature?
What is life?
*Nothing

Her own desire led her astray,
a smile from him was enough to ignite the fire.
The serpent wrapped itself around her neck. She couldn't run away,
She thought they were the enemy, she found her society so dire.

"Why linger here? Why turn another page?" She though to herself.
She walked to where she first died,
and there she commited suicide.