You fucked me up, made me believe I was yours.
I sold my soul to you, I gave you my life.
Let me believe you were the devil, and I'd get vinyls in return.
But what did you do? You fucked me. Fucked me up pretty damn good. I gotta admit, you put up a jolly good show.
And now, here I am, sinning. Burning, having the fruits of your damn labour thrown at my face. I'm left to carry a burden that isn't mine.
I'm a sinner for you, and I've got no salvation.
YOU ARE READING
'Silent' Clouds.
Poetry¶Words have no meaning, unless you make them, turning them into a spontaneous overflow of rhythm¶ ¶A string of broken pieces interwoven into into poetry. Broken symphonies, turned into poetry¶
