Eyes dripping
Tears full of blood,
with half quarter of my heart,
bleeding over love,
which was never suppose to hurt,
but rather to be drunk on it,
and swim in the ocean full of happiness

Its better to love than to never love at all
But what if love can never be enough,
to the extent where my heart is able to accommodate?
Maybe is my calling,
calling to stay alone and nurse my insecurities
as I dine in the pool of my sorrow
witnessing the ocean of my happiness dry