don't ya hate it when that happens?
Monday, December 09, 2002
means to an end
bleed the top, be rid of clouds and such that occupy this mind,
for living as if living dead does not ease this bind. be gone!
i cast thee out yet still you haunt these thoughts. A thousand nights
to could have beens, more lives for moments lost. Simple
sought for simple means, but nothing fit that bill, A mourning
song from birds of love from dawns spent unfulfilled, what ifs
and whys want more to do, but weary grows this heart
that weighs so much upon sweet love, i sink unto this art.
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