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.