Crimson dreams break,
and slice through every thought,
Blood fills the dirty recesses of my mind,
I'm losing myself, I've lost for the last time,
perhaps Winning, is for the ones whom know how to lose,
I've lost enough, to win for eternity if this be true,
The shards of this once whole mind,
cut upon my soul,
rubbing crimson in every wrong way,
so painful, yet I've become accustomed.
Please look at me, and see everything I've tried to be,
Perfection is in the eye of the beholder,
yet the eye that beholds me see's nothing,
besides masochistic beauty.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A very powerful poem about how the mind can work. Great write.