Just when I thought
Under all these smiles are lies...
where the sun begins,
and you end...
Joy
happy, content...
I go mad at her
And I accuse her...
The branches of the trees
They hardly move...
A great silence roamed the land
And the sun grew dark that day...
|
A writer not only writes what the writer feels but the writer can also feel what the writer writes |
|
Being in love is like playing with fire you always get burned |
|
Must keep my eyes open, can't fall asleep yet, I'm widely wake, but for how long? |