If you would like to talk about the pain.
Yes, of unbearable pain.
Handmade, home, sometimes a stranger.
At lilac evening
When lit light bulb,
The pain is still black,
It is still sticky.
Lying on the table,
You certainly remember the past.
Where even worse,
Where are you green,
Where uebkam funny at you.
They do not read poetry alcoholics
They are alien to the spiritual,
They sit in butter
And fuck your toys.
Laugh at the silly *** it,
As clay soldiers,
I sculpted out of them lumps
And throws in garbage bags.
It hurts not only in the head,
It hurts the whole body -
Inside and out.
That's right, you know,
Circle glass liners,
Mixed with dust,
And turns wherever I am.
Sticks needles in her mouth
Sticks needles in her eyes.
If to talk about the pain,
It is my grain,
And I can tell you more.
Because I do not sleep,
I never sleep,
Just breathe,
Listen to the heart,
I can imagine how it trembles,
As it is surrounded by scars
And the blood runs.
In places unknown to me,
All the while, the blood runs.
That upward, then downward to
x ** understand,
But hands and feet are always cold.
They are my ice
They are my camera.
You are lying on the floor,
And think about love,
And it is even worse,
Than blood ran away.
Love is more dangerous
It has two sides.
She heat for someone
Who is she - winter.
I am afraid of her,
It is stronger than glass.
With love I'm terminally ill,
Doubly weakling and soldier.
With love doubly hurt me,
And the dust will not feel
Blood,
Needles,
With it, I am green,
As spring grass after rain thick.
