I'm relatively sure
That you don't know how it works.
And I'm absolutely certain
That you don't know how it hurts.
There's a little scar inside,
That twists up when I write,
And, as deeper digs the wound,
The pain begins to bite.
But tasting all the dreams,
And their shards of broken glass,
Leaves you wan, and wanting,
For a sweet, imagined past
That there's no way to recapture,
because it wasn't really there.
And you remember that you're lying,
And the wound begins to tear.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
I'm relatively sure
That you don't know how it works.
And I'm absolutely certain
That you don't know how it hurts.
There's a little scar inside,
That twists up when I write,
And, as deeper digs the wound,
The pain begins to bite.
But tasting all the dreams,
And their shards of broken glass,
Leaves you wan, and wanting,
For a sweet, imagined past
That there's no way to recapture,
because it wasn't really there.
And you remember that you're lying,
And the wound begins to tear.
So many poems to the muse...
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