Descendant of artists, university dropout, lost soul looking for any signs to tell me to keep writing.
I know nothing of talent,
that much I know.
Though I learned of heartbreak,
I would want to be
with the one I was supposed to be.
I would caress their cheek,
White roses turn to ashes
- in a milisecond's blow.
Hiding behind silk curtains
Champagne glasses - drops of sorrow,
Empty plates now fill with shame,
Simple touch recalls tomorrow,
Ordered love, so full of hate.