tosakarade
Bluelighter
What the fuck was i thinking?
Why wouldn't i listen?
They all tried to tell me.
Tried to make me see.
I said that i wasn't nieve
That to feel love you also had to feel pain
And though my head could see through your lies
My hearts cloud was impenetratable
I fooled myself into thinking
You were all you were and more
But really you turned out the lowest of scum,
A putrid pile of rotting lies
Used to jail me in my delusion
------------------
I think poetry is written mostly for pleasure, by which I mean the pleasure of pain, horror, anguish and awe as well as the pleasure of beauty, music and the act of living.
~Kenneth Slessor~
[This message has been edited by tosakarade (edited 17 May 2001).]
Why wouldn't i listen?
They all tried to tell me.
Tried to make me see.
I said that i wasn't nieve
That to feel love you also had to feel pain
And though my head could see through your lies
My hearts cloud was impenetratable
I fooled myself into thinking
You were all you were and more
But really you turned out the lowest of scum,
A putrid pile of rotting lies
Used to jail me in my delusion
------------------
I think poetry is written mostly for pleasure, by which I mean the pleasure of pain, horror, anguish and awe as well as the pleasure of beauty, music and the act of living.
~Kenneth Slessor~
[This message has been edited by tosakarade (edited 17 May 2001).]
