Maybe we were born to walk alone, to fall into the fire and to
burn, to walk through the flames, to never return again; maybe
that's the destiny of us all. Maybe we were born to be enslaved,
inside cities, inside homes, inside ourselves. Maybe it's our destiny to be caged, just as it's our destiny to burn. Maybe there are
some who will rise, from their ashes on the ground, and make
use of themselves. Maybe there are some that could be wind,
thus they fan the flames. Maybe our lives are just survival of the
fittest, maybe I am the fan to my flames, because all my life I have
burned with desire; here I am now, not burnt, but worn out, because I have walked through the fire.
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Poems
PoetryA poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language. These are generally morbid poems for people who are generally morbid, or maybe just taking a small step into the shadow realm. This is a trigger zone. I don't own t...
