Oh. I am not brave,
I walk through this earth meandering much like a slave,
chest shattered much like crumbled glass,
That I hope that I soon to pass with some dignity,
Pity.
It's all this broken heart has felt, not for itself but for the ones knelt,
They shout and curse such vengeful sentences,
That I too hear the deceit inside their intentions,
What is love?
Why do you ask? When that history seems to splatter my past,
I am not a cruel boy, no,
My heart intentionally was left out to wither in the snow.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 12:04 AM UTC
Oh. I am not brave,
I walk through this earth meandering much like a slave,
chest shattered much like crumbled glass,
That I hope that I soon to pass with some dignity,
Pity.
It's all this broken heart has felt, not for itself but for the ones knelt,
They shout and curse such vengeful sentences,
That I too hear the deceit inside their intentions,
What is love?
Why do you ask? When that history seems to splatter my past,
I am not a cruel boy, no,
My heart intentionally was left out to wither in the snow.
Written by Tristan
