Tuesday, April 28, 2009

They think I'm weird.

I own something they don't

I speak different language

I wake up at night

I sing with sweet revengeful banshee

I love my black long hair

And so they think I'm weird.

Atypical historical

A woely arduous mental

I feed my own deeds

I try to be honest to the fault

And honesty must always been paid off

Painful as what it literally seemed

Yet painful feels so tediously numb

In these eyes I shed dry tears

Collecting every pieces remain

Of the broken dry dreams

They looked darkly beautiful

I desire to live that way

Dreamy ever after

And so they still think I'm weird?

Why don't just slay them all?

~ G ~

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