My type of emotions conveys
onto how i'm really feeling inside,
my thoughts mainly consist on the
back-ground of my poetry.
As my addictive persona
starts to silhouette every-
word that i've written out
the nature of my emotions
starts to unravel at every-
line,
My poesia has a piece
of imagination within it-
self, the artwork of
each line has it's own
significant meaning.
Where the beauty is
that's where the poetry
lives, it lives within my soul,
as i carry each and every-line
with care, i start to share a
piece of me inside every-
lyrical line that i compose.
onto how i'm really feeling inside,
my thoughts mainly consist on the
back-ground of my poetry.
As my addictive persona
starts to silhouette every-
word that i've written out
the nature of my emotions
starts to unravel at every-
line,
My poesia has a piece
of imagination within it-
self, the artwork of
each line has it's own
significant meaning.
Where the beauty is
that's where the poetry
lives, it lives within my soul,
as i carry each and every-line
with care, i start to share a
piece of me inside every-
lyrical line that i compose.
January 15, 1815
Journal,
Its cold. My comida is almost gone, I can’t feel my hands. I lost my hat; my ears are frozen. My sisters are dying. Sasha has pneumonia, and Nastea’s lost her casaco and shoes. My hair is falling out. I look at the broken down train behind us. Tree’s sleep soundlessly on topo, início of it. I sit at a árvore trunk, with you on my lap, and a scrawny pencil in my hand. Nastea sits beside Sasha, feeding her berries and herbs. I hope things get better, Journal. I hope things get better.
Bye Journal,
Nadia
Journal,
Its cold. My comida is almost gone, I can’t feel my hands. I lost my hat; my ears are frozen. My sisters are dying. Sasha has pneumonia, and Nastea’s lost her casaco and shoes. My hair is falling out. I look at the broken down train behind us. Tree’s sleep soundlessly on topo, início of it. I sit at a árvore trunk, with you on my lap, and a scrawny pencil in my hand. Nastea sits beside Sasha, feeding her berries and herbs. I hope things get better, Journal. I hope things get better.
Bye Journal,
Nadia
she unloads his gun
She and he waits for this
he releases his love
In blue and green orbs
she gives him mais and more
A million miles away
A million years girl
In a black woven chest
he digs his nails deep
She trusts in him for what he does
live in a house in the suburbs
He kisses the pain with blood and light
sleeping it off in the morning
A million miles away
A million years girl
In her world of his
she unloads his gun
In a world of his
she covers the sun
A million miles away
A million years
A million years girl