I cannot place the words inside my heart;
They speak without the language of my mind.
And no translator ever faced a part
The difficulty of this certain kind.
I think my spirit longs for something warm;
But that is too abstract a feeling, true:
Perhaps it longs for shelter from the storm...
I doubt it likes all that it's been put through.
My soul has far too much to just express;
It must be a headache to the list'ners.
Its potency is void to the masses.
O, how my heart moans; it is prisoner.
Distant it is feeling; words cannot say
Just how far my heart has been pushed away.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
I cannot place the words inside my heart;
They speak without the language of my mind.
And no translator ever faced a part
The difficulty of this certain kind.
I think my spirit longs for something warm;
But that is too abstract a feeling, true:
Perhaps it longs for shelter from the storm...
I doubt it likes all that it's been put through.
My soul has far too much to just express;
It must be a headache to the list'ners.
Its potency is void to the masses.
O, how my heart moans; it is prisoner.
Distant it is feeling; words cannot say
Just how far my heart has been pushed away.
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