about the constant feeling of being left..
To everything that's born in the darkness: it eats me up,
Consumes my every breath and even when it hurts me like a whip,
I'm devoted to it with my whole existence.
So what is life? A beautiful lane in the forest full
Of blueberries? Of lovely bears who help every innocent
To become a machine of sorrow?
How about insects who lead us to fairytale doorways
And show us the meaning of animalistic rampage?
I don't care about human trials or efforts
On making things harder than they could be.
It's a talent to live through life as if you'd be a ray of sunshine.
I'm nothing like that, I'm the worm crawling on dead people.
Before they die - I enter their minds and make them
Fall asleep thinking of horrifying desires,
Mankind isn't supposed to know of.
Rotten since four, left by everyone entering,
It's ok – it wouldn't be the first time.
The only sad part is that I know not how to cry.
Had enough of running after my loved ones,
If they want to run – they are free like sparkling bumblebees.
I'll just scream in my loneliness, as a beast in a cage.
I'll curse and shout madly at my own rage
And of course at you, my love, for winning my trust and
bouncing to the other direction. But that's not my cue, is it?
I don't care much about dirt, about the layers you're made of,
but pushing me aside is worse than cutting my fingers off.
I would embrace you through any disgust, you know.
but you allowed me to scream didn't you? Well I hope you hear this.
Had enough of letting people in - human beings
Can't handle what I'm made of.
I have a great understanding with black, an amazing soul twist –
The outfits on funerals, the gaps in my soul.
Silly as I am – I hoped this would be different,
But people don't stay next to someone with a rotten inside,
They move to the boulevard and pick the pretty roses.
Silly as I am – I hoped this would be unlike the past,
but being pushed away is becoming a comedy act, not a tragedy.
It's ok – I can handle pain, go on with being brave
And gorgeous, I'll go on with being the widow of blackness.
Adoring it even when it hurts me like a violent whip,
How sick is that?..
Poetry by FrancescaLuca
Read 569 times
Written on 2006-12-04 at 23:17
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Widow of blackness
Talking about black - I guess I've got a mysterious connectionTo everything that's born in the darkness: it eats me up,
Consumes my every breath and even when it hurts me like a whip,
I'm devoted to it with my whole existence.
So what is life? A beautiful lane in the forest full
Of blueberries? Of lovely bears who help every innocent
To become a machine of sorrow?
How about insects who lead us to fairytale doorways
And show us the meaning of animalistic rampage?
I don't care about human trials or efforts
On making things harder than they could be.
It's a talent to live through life as if you'd be a ray of sunshine.
I'm nothing like that, I'm the worm crawling on dead people.
Before they die - I enter their minds and make them
Fall asleep thinking of horrifying desires,
Mankind isn't supposed to know of.
Rotten since four, left by everyone entering,
It's ok – it wouldn't be the first time.
The only sad part is that I know not how to cry.
Had enough of running after my loved ones,
If they want to run – they are free like sparkling bumblebees.
I'll just scream in my loneliness, as a beast in a cage.
I'll curse and shout madly at my own rage
And of course at you, my love, for winning my trust and
bouncing to the other direction. But that's not my cue, is it?
I don't care much about dirt, about the layers you're made of,
but pushing me aside is worse than cutting my fingers off.
I would embrace you through any disgust, you know.
but you allowed me to scream didn't you? Well I hope you hear this.
Had enough of letting people in - human beings
Can't handle what I'm made of.
I have a great understanding with black, an amazing soul twist –
The outfits on funerals, the gaps in my soul.
Silly as I am – I hoped this would be different,
But people don't stay next to someone with a rotten inside,
They move to the boulevard and pick the pretty roses.
Silly as I am – I hoped this would be unlike the past,
but being pushed away is becoming a comedy act, not a tragedy.
It's ok – I can handle pain, go on with being brave
And gorgeous, I'll go on with being the widow of blackness.
Adoring it even when it hurts me like a violent whip,
How sick is that?..
Poetry by FrancescaLuca
Read 569 times
Written on 2006-12-04 at 23:17
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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