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Published: 2006-02-14 01:29:07 +0000 UTC; Views: 50; Favourites: 0; Downloads: 3
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Description
Barely focusing,I still see what is written;
Though the fog in my mind
Is thick and opaque
And the blood is pounding in my temples,
I can still read what is written.
The small heart drawn in a notebook;
I don't use it anymore.
I breathed on the window
So I could leave a mark with my finger,
Written only in thought now.
The poems and the letters,
Pen, and pen only;
The color of red,
The color of black;
I won't take it back.
I trace the words with my fingers
And whisper them as I read.
I read of anger;
I read of greed,
Of envy and empty wishes.
I know them so well.
There were times
In the past,
When life was a hell;
I knew them so well.
And so I make this card
For a fake cause;
I sign it with hearts,
I glue it with love;
I drew it with love.
A stamp for some change,
A colored envelope for flair;
You knew I would care.
I promised that I'd send it
And what will come in exchange?
By chance some chocolate and flowers?
Maybe I've done enough now?
Maybe I've changed.
Maybe.
I won't think about it anymore;
That's what memories are for.
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Comments: 2
deviantbrain [2006-02-17 20:58:47 +0000 UTC]
What the person above me said. This - is really breathtaking - heartfelt.
It is close to ten out of ten.
👍: 0 ⏩: 0
Caedocn [2006-02-15 03:01:33 +0000 UTC]
Feigned love? Past of question. So poetic! A rejection? (<< 👍: 0 ⏩: 0
Deep meaning, this poem has. Of course, I could say that for almost all of your poems. Out-shtanding work.




