Your words, they doomed me to oblivion,
Yet not your words it was, that forced the pain;
The seeming doom, was just some broken syllables
Kept circling round my ailing mind again.
Your words appeared to doom imagination,
That only hears the echoes of it's mind;
But I was judge, and able executioner
While you, as usual, were just being kind.
With friends like me, an enemy can't gain entry;
I close the lock and throw the key away-
I am my poor hearts only brutal sentry;
More hopeless: for to self, I cannot pray.
nice moody poem. a total 180 from the last ones i just read by u. but in a good way though. full of feelings but seemingly healthy and kept together.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I am my poor hearts only brutal sentry; More hopeless: for to self, I cannot pray. I like it!