Is it you,
Is it me
Whom the dead poet may be...
It matters not
It's just a thought
Of who the dead poet might be.
A master of word
Whom indeed will be heard
They won't go with the herd
They'll sing like a bird!
But they're dead after all
Noone hears their call
And they do as they're told
With the ground
They
All
Fold

I'm addicted to taking my mind off things
I'm tired of constant elaborate thinks
I've stopped caring what tomorrow brings
I refuse to go to your shrinks
I don't feel my soul, I think it just left
Maybe it died, or it was common theft
To my face I take my palm
I pretend I'm being calm
But really I'm much too stressed
I crave sleep
For me it's the best

Her beuaty, how scary
Smooth and silky
Snowy white, deceiving
Has a need of touch
Wraps around the brave, blinding him,
Wraps around the world, a childish play
And nothing, no more
Nor beautiful
Nor scary
Like that wreath of hers
Milky gray
Grayish white
Leaves everyone a little dazed...
Her cold touch
And her touch is the only desire
Never a rush in admiring her beauty
Only slow steps
Calm walk with her by your side
In front, behind, everywhere you can see
No place for three world in thick fog, unforeseeable
However still so innocently pure...