Why do I always seem to reminisce of the broken heart,
Past of which was shredded to pieces,
Pain with every tear,
Tears with every thought,
Never sought.
The tears, they act as a stream.
Flowing directly from the past,
They act so blissful.
What a predicament…
I shouldn't be this sad I am too young,
Yet some my age,
Raise youth.
What am I doing exactly?
Taking it slow…
It never seems to make me sure.
Every encounter of love…
Left in ends.
Nothing seems everlasting,
Am I not searching?
I hate the memories they leave,
I never understand their aspects,
Prospects?
Nothing seems to work,
Nothing seems to content,
Nothing seems to mend,
The me who has been bent, till' bend can,
no more...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem