Fate isn't something alive,
Although it's purely divine.
As I write on these lines
My metaphorical ink disappears.
Apparently you can't keep it
For years.
When I was four years,
I didn't wonder how I got here.
I just lived in the moment,
Striving to own it.
Now I'm a poet,
I can write my own worth.
'Cause you can't jump over a hearth,
Without getting burned.
The ashes are my soul
Getting scorched over
And over,
Until I feel full;
And ***** all my love,
Which ends with me
Getting squashed like a bug.
Then a hug,
With the saying
"We can still be friends"
Oh joy, I can't wait
To see how
This ends.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
Fate isn't something alive,
Although it's purely divine.
As I write on these lines
My metaphorical ink disappears.
Apparently you can't keep it
For years.
When I was four years,
I didn't wonder how I got here.
I just lived in the moment,
Striving to own it.
Now I'm a poet,
I can write my own worth.
'Cause you can't jump over a hearth,
Without getting burned.
The ashes are my soul
Getting scorched over
And over,
Until I feel full;
And ***** all my love,
Which ends with me
Getting squashed like a bug.
Then a hug,
With the saying
"We can still be friends"
Oh joy, I can't wait
To see how
This ends.
