what was it that used to exist?
call it curse, or have faith, and call it a gift
whatever that was, it had been carried
as the wind blowed,
let the devil may care about it
when nothing is settled
that is the ultimate
an idle melody strays away
when tracks run perfectly out of the rays
so i stray away, (whistling)
so idle but very careful
so open but never blind
no, never for you
hope waves at you like a bitxh from the window
doesnt it carry sorrow, everywhere it goes?
if you think about it,
arent you a little bit like hope?
so i stray stray away
so gently, vagabond
i was born to die
but no i was born to live
what wonderful news, that is
so i stray stray stray away
to find my reason, to be.
YOU ARE READING
my poems
Poetryhonestly, life only seems like a theatre of one distracting itself from everything to care about.
