His pen draws a sunken face
Along his golden fingertips
He has become lost in the misplaced
Yet truth traces his lips
And in front of him are his silver eyes
Reflecting from his ink
And his art has never realized
How black their hearts were made
I'm thinking, the desire of an individual is the first step to lose oneself, go astray, lost, frustrated, and finally crash down, real connections come from the absolute feeling of the differentiation of individuals, "i am one, and he/she is one, i speak myself and i listen himself/herself", no one control my actions, i am the master of my choices.
ReplyDeleteDamn one could say i'm utterly bitter, and if i really deeply believe in that line what does that make me?!
(don't mind me, i'm just writing the first phrases crossing my mind)