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Description
You let me tie my heart, and smiled as you spun it, around a carousel you dreamed as sweetly as you tell lies.
Your gently warped soul suffocates in your outer goodness, you sew shut my eyes so I cannot see the truth- and it pleases me that I never have to face up to it.

I cannot blame you for what I suffer now. I break my own heart so flawlessly. I poison it, I watch it decay. I burn it just to watch the wind carry its ashes.
Or did my heart turn on me? Abandon the rest of my soul, leaving me in the dark? Is it true that I am, as all poets ought to be, bound to his words? Bound to to their essence before I even speak them- for they are all that is left of me now? I am bound when they are read, to their chaotic production- and I'll be bound as they burn.

I'll go mad considering it. Poetry knows no bounds, not even to the man who spins it, nor the man who reads it. It touches on souls, whether the soul is willing or not. It breaks hearts and ruins even the strongest men.
The strings of my heart play for it when I hear it. Suffering is safely at home in poetry. And I'm forever exposed to the mercy of words- the merciless words.

I blame only you, naturally- for bringing out the poet in me.

Description
You let me tie my heart, and smiled as you spun it, around a carousel you dreamed as sweetly as you tell lies.
Your gently warped soul suffocates in your outer goodness, you sew shut my eyes so I cannot see the truth- and it pleases me that I never have to face up to it.

I cannot blame you for what I suffer now. I break my own heart so flawlessly. I poison it, I watch it decay. I burn it just to watch the wind carry its ashes.
Or did my heart turn on me? Abandon the rest of my soul, leaving me in the dark? Is it true that I am, as all poets ought to be, bound to his words? Bound to to their essence before I even speak them- for they are all that is left of me now? I am bound when they are read, to their chaotic production- and I'll be bound as they burn.

I'll go mad considering it. Poetry knows no bounds, not even to the man who spins it, nor the man who reads it. It touches on souls, whether the soul is willing or not. It breaks hearts and ruins even the strongest men.
The strings of my heart play for it when I hear it. Suffering is safely at home in poetry. And I'm forever exposed to the mercy of words- the merciless words.

I blame only you, naturally- for bringing out the poet in me.