you are a haunted house windows inviting and dark mysterious as you liken yourself to be a bubbling toil and trouble a mistaken spell volcanic and eruptive i wake up sweaty from your ghosts
I yearn for love, but cannot give it The pain inflicted on me is destined to come again My heart lacks in passion Body deprived of pleasure And mind in fear of relapse
Hope is not found in a desperate measure Nor is love found in the flesh's pleasure Made up of endorphins or abstract ideals Too much of either, you won't know how to feel