without these verses written, I'd be dead.
I'll force a laugh, I'll force a silly rhyme,
a perfect tool, I think, for passing time.
I started bleeding verse in middle school,
a tired loser, rotund and uncool,
but things can change, oh I was loved and lost,
and (natur'lly) by this fucked-up tempest tossed.
I'm in my 20s now, I'm living on,
(and also, by some standards, living wrong)
but I do what I must (and so it goes)
and what will I write next? Nobody knows.
Oh look, a sonnet! but I forced some rhymes.
Thank God I won't hang for that petty crime.
Love is whatever you can still betray.
Betrayal can only happen if you love.
—
John le Carre
The way you kiss my inner ears
and evanesce my garnet fears;
the chords you strike, on strings so thin;
a tender melody within;
the key that melts my secret cave
and leads to death the frightened knave;
the warrior who tries to shield
emotions that would try to build
and blossom brightly, sun or rain;
believing both will summon pain.
This onion’s heart does know the truth
that you; so sweet, but so uncouth
have screens of smoke before your heart,
a spider’s web — we’re split apart.
But this is love? So I’d believe —
this friendship does naught to relieve
the hours I spend counting time,
nor does it make my heart sublime
from toxic gas to trusting gold,
nor does it make these new wings bold.
-
selljac likes this
-
morgentraeumer posted this
