I don't sleep at night for thoughts of you and what I'll do.
Dreaming. A life of fright. Seemingly only subdued by
intoxicants, though with them my life is can'ts,
my words, rants
on a staggered stance;
No clear path through.
Intentions misconstrued
Me and myself collude
to ruin an attitude
damned. Still I feud
with myself and me
to separate what's glued,
but as wood breaks first
on what's naturally fused,
I crack first
where the aforementioned has affused
unto me a link, weak and loose.
If I could... I'd choose,
though still there'd be no use.
Donde aún permanece tu olor | Poesía [ES/EN]roswelborges ·
