What hurts is the dashing misconception of the wind that blows romance so unwillingly into my desires. Everything in me yearns for passion in waiting for handsome bodies to enter their soul. I search for the conduct of destiny in hope to find tranquillity in the existence of fury of love.
Love... I am tired in tying to define love...with all its attributes of wonder the sore bruises are too heavy on my heart. I drizzle with rain of memories and exceedingly smile feverishly about the future, but somewhere I cry cold to the air thinking about what if that air was thinner to understand my language that I breathe, countryside’s of poems and I always view the same landscape... love is not for me and with it i am never free.
Love... I am tired in tying to define love...with all its attributes of wonder the sore bruises are too heavy on my heart. I drizzle with rain of memories and exceedingly smile feverishly about the future, but somewhere I cry cold to the air thinking about what if that air was thinner to understand my language that I breathe, countryside’s of poems and I always view the same landscape... love is not for me and with it i am never free.
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