The tulips have thorns
I was pricked.
Little painful wound
And the blood was pink.
I know the coffee is poisoned
Yet I blindly drink.
Too late to say
Never use the heart to think.
If only I could say it
I'll ask you,
"How much of you I'm allowed to love?"
If only I could do it
I'll tell to myself,
"Presence of pain means stop"
So I begged to myself
To not write about you
Anymore.
I lost my hope last evening
And from now on,
Every night,
I'll die in a poetic death
And you'll never know the truth.