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if someone described me as a broken glass i could agree,
the bile of thoughts
fuels hatred
indifference of action
fuels desire
I'm a writer,
A poet,
Screaming to the world that I exist,
I'm not a silent relic floating around,
Not some puppet to be fiddled with,
Not a sculptor's grotesque creation,
Run! Run!
Better Run!
Keep going, please keep going
A portrait without a face,
A ghost without a spirit,
A phantom never feared,
An assassin who leaves no trace,
A song with no music and lyrics,
A form that was never mirrored,
moss grows on a log.
it spreads and thrives.
if dry, it dies.
but this moss, never dies.
no matter how hot or dry,
it doesn’t die.
the empty soul of dashed hopes
still try to walk through mud of life
the roots of doubt are deeply rooted in you
you’re losing touch with real life
In the dead of the night,
I venture the dark alleys and streets,
Broken are the lights,
Each home is a memory of serene deceit,
I see the playground,
Where we as kids used to play,
you kill a bug.
it’s ugly and disgusting.
It’s small but it’s still a threat.
to what? you don’t know.
it’s just disgusting.
your blue eyes
are like a paradise,
your eyes hit my heart,
you became a light in my dark
a bug, stuck in a jar.
in a struggle to escape
it crawls around.
to no avail.
after all it’s so frail.
frail, this bug still climbs.
Липка павутина тримає
Кінцівки асоціальної комахи.
Комаха наївно вважає,
Що вона не у фільмі жахів.
Голодний до щастя павук,
Показує яскраве життя -