The cartridge of an ink pen darkens the crumpled pages of my heart
as he leaves once again, leaving nothing but half healed scars

The delusions give birth to little creations from the ashes of my despair soul

I don't consider these writings as songs nor as poetry, as the life I have led has never given me enough sense of poetry

These are just some of the writings that me and my delusions have given birth to every time we shared a bed together past midnight.