I'm sick of this game,
It's not one I like playing
Good times I once had,
the price for which, I am now paying
But the past is the past,
Even if I once wanted it to last
And now, this little spark of hatred
Is slowly becoming a flame
And it might even grow large enough,
To burn down the memories
That still remain
A perfect story
That ended with a tragic twist,
A flame that burned it all down
And left nothing,
But a looming mist
YOU ARE READING
Just Some Poems
PoetryA poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music... and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: "Sing...
