Losing what is left of myself.
I turned right.
Before the end of the dead.
In the tomb of silent whispers.
I am wrapped, but I am emotionally plastic.
Caught in the web.
I do not have to die to lie.
Queened by deceit.
I love to deceive.
Honestly, I abide by the truth.
Pain is my star in the skies of sorrow.
There are many, shining blood red.
Sparkling with the moon, grey dust dead.
Writing my letter, I feel less better.
I stare at my wrists, I am bleeding.
Remorse was never felt.
My will to die is filled by tears.
But my eyes are dunes of sand, dead dry.
I hate hours which strikes into years.
Caged by my age, I never turned a page.
The book was written.
The spider is my addiction.
I have willingly been bitten.
I do not sorry the worry.
Please, in my world, is a different breed.
So is what was panted.
My seeds are the thorns.
Breathless by the fall, I hear her call.
I do not hide which was never supposed to be hidden.
Blamed by the flame.
I am the fire.
Burning with my scars.
Engraved by death.
My wounds are stitched.
I breathe.
I wish.
Alone to the bone.
My will do not do the ill.
To be saved.
Not even if forever.
Which is a wild never.
Is a cure.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem