I want to feel lovedAnd cared forAnd happyI want to feel freeAnd carelessAnd wildI want to feel hateAnd stressAnd darknessI just want to feel something worthwhileBecause I have been left broken
The question dancesOn my lipsYou tell meI seem to forgetYou have changedNot for the betterWe used to be friendsWho did this to you?Change is melancholyYou lose peopleYou didn't want toBut it happened"Let it go," you sayBut I can't..
In my roomOn the top of my dresserSits a clockIt does not workBut still triesTo tick tocWhen I'm lonelyI look at itThe smallest handStruggling to movePaused on only one timeI think it might be an omenThat maybeI need to move onBut from what?A question
The wind whispersSweet nothingsIn my earA silent lullabyThat wages onSilent tears streamDown my red cheeksA reminderOf the bloodshedFor a momentEverything stopsAnd I hearThe wind whisperingBeckoning meInto the stormSilently, carefully
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.