I didn't expect to see those hateful eyes dressed in that gorgeous smile.
We've been tearing pages from the walls trying to read what it is the writer left; this loves wasn't worth the blood we shed.
It's not worth the heart we gave.
We can't save face this time/this time murder felt so much like love.
We can't escape this paradox it runs inside our veins.
It's so cold we can feel it in our bones, each breath spreads poison.
Read the note the poet sent, it read like death by firing sqaud.
"Goodbye this won't take long. Vacant winter is your last song." It feels like I've been here before but never quite like this. The Poet said,"My son how could your compacent lungs believe that when the clock struck three it was finally time to breath?"
Candle lights and silver spoons bring light to the writers pen. "Everything we had was golden, or so I'm told.
They tried to tell me that a life without Your love is hell, even in a paradise. Nothing says fire quite like the image of Your heart bleeding baby!"