that thing called love
its all just fake just
a shorter word
for the start of heartache
its this thing made up
of all our tears
we all listen but no body hears
we all will get hurt
and chose not to care
then point our fingers
becauses the pains not fair
but we like the pain
its almost like relief
Slowly we tear down these walls
and we'll lose all belief...
till then here we lie
knee deep in this mess
we need help
but we wont confess
we spill out emotions
usually into song
in hopes that one day
Well all sing along
were people were imperfect
we'll never learn
because the feel of acceptance
is something in which we yearn
so we'll pave these roads
that start with you and me
and maybe well get lucky
and forever we will see
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem