Dark poetry in my heart from the cradle to the grave.
Sometimes they call me crazy. It never matters who. the fact is I am not crazy, my breakdowns are always defended by illusions I am trying to make real.
By Liga Stromberga6 years ago in Poets
Everywhere I go is all but dead-end. Page written full and end of the story. No will or inspiration left to hit another dead end.
The state you left me in, where my own name became a hollow sound. State where my world leaves me with bloodshot eyes. My heart is slow and tired.
This trip I am having has no end... Till I take the six feet dive that is fated. I'm never coming home, I let myself go and leave it all behind.
I have been chasing happiness I got left alone with misery. Now she is my only company. I could not, should not and would not let anyone else enter here.
I don't remember when I pulled the curtains down... Blocked out the sun and gazed at the moon. In my lonely hours it shined down on me.
The rain keeps falling down... It keeps beating the ground with unending melody It speaks of sadness and grief. It never tells new tales...