I wondered if my love for you died. Weird, I thought I would have fought for you, I thought I would have cried. Instead everything felt hollow. Not having any inspiration to write, its, not loving you. Its a hard pill to swallow.
the old wives say it must be the left hind foot of a rabbit shot with a silver bullet or not shot at all simply captured one way or another ideally on the grave of a criminal the more wicked the person the more potent the charm with the foot harvested while the poor creature is still alive it has to be done in a cemetery during the night of a full or new moon though others say it should be a friday a rainy friday friday the thirteenth if the foot is to become one of those lucky ones
my feelings don't matter, did they ever i question? where was your intention...im scrambled like eggs. did you enjoy the taste? simply wanted to lay? "oh it's no fussy!" too often I say i'm used to this way. i've been cracked at the seams and tossed out in the hay with nowhere to go except further misplaced. but aren't we alone at the end of the day....? that's probably why we never will stay. so again - i pray. relinquish these emotions that are blocking my way.