Waltz For Zizi
Candle Burning My Hands
You did something to me,
You made me the poet
forcing me to dip the pen in my heart
in search for the right ink
and for a piece of you
left there, from a long time ago.
to me you are not love.
To me you are just scribbles
on the mountains of paper I buy
with the little money I have.
The silhouette of an old dream,
that's what you are to me.
A paper muse that I see,
only when I gaze at the stars,
when I can't smile,
when the world won't let me.
Your palms, the shelter of my heart,
where are they now?
I've given you words
that can only be found in my heart.
None of them were lies
you spilled them all.
I did not mind your heart
passing through so many hands
before laying in mine,
but you just cold not share your love with me,
Yes, we slept together,
in your room, in my room,
so many times
but in reality, we never really made love to each other
in a way to be worth writing about.
You were in such a hurry
to put your clothes back on,
only I hated the clock for spinning that fast,
and the world for being too loud
every time I'd put my head on your chest,
to hear the heart,
my fingers could not reach.
Thief, I'm not giving you anything else.
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Comments about this poem (Candle Burning My Hands by Waltz For Zizi )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
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