By the light of the moon,
I will feel better.
When the clouds give way to its red, crescent shape
I shall no longer feel alone.
My pain is not so foreign,
Instead, it has been replaced with something familiar.
Thousand's litter my body,
Appearing with each new cycle of despair,
To be captured by a photographer,
Forever to scar my once perfect skin.
Now I can cry for something new.
These tears are for a pain that makes sense.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 6:58 PM UTC
By the light of the moon,
I will feel better.
When the clouds give way to its red, crescent shape
I shall no longer feel alone.
My pain is not so foreign,
Instead, it has been replaced with something familiar.
Thousand's litter my body,
Appearing with each new cycle of despair,
To be captured by a photographer,
Forever to scar my once perfect skin.
Now I can cry for something new.
These tears are for a pain that makes sense.
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