• miragelove18 207w


    I wish I had someone to bury my face,
    Into the depth of his uncertain heartbeat.
    But non so sweet is fit in my case,
    So rather I must take comfort in John Keats.

    Everyone has dammed my love and hurled it low,
    Lower to the zeniths core where feeble blood flows.
    My blood is not red it has rather turned white,
    White as a corpse ready to be shallowed by kite.

    Birth rights have grown weary and tired of me,
    I find nothing in these fake words you see!
    I must be a cursed soul drawn by a tragedy,
    Slowly consuming poison and dying with malady.

    Though I am beautiful, fair and bright eyed,
    But equally cursed and feverishly tied.
    Oh if blood is all you need,
    My eyes and breast will provide your feed.

    John you do not do anymore,
    Your grave does not provide that happy lore.
    Oh kill me but don't leave me alone,
    I can't bear it God to be hammered and blown.