Is it weird if i have started carrying
Deaths as memories?
If my idea of love is dysfunctional?
If i have stopped loving people
Thinking my time with them is too less
With them?
If I’m too scared of ghosts
That live inside me?
There’s a home
Made of stardust
That i keep looking for,
A gateway drug
That would save me from myself
I keep decorating things with
ice-caps for some reason
-struggling to keep them alive.
Only to see them burn faster than melt
I keep painting things with love
Only to see them oozing blood
My heart and body feel like conjoined twins
One is dead, but one is alive.
Kommentare