I didn't want to get over youBut I needed toYou were like a poison to my happinessEverytime you lied, everytime you walked awayI used to think that if its you, then it's no fucking personBut indeed I was wrong, it wasnt you but it was meI had to be myselfI had to stop trying to get something I know I won't achieveI had to stop cryingSo I did
Sometimes I feel like giving upBecause there isn't anything left for meBut thenThere is this one personWho makes me feel better about myselfWho makes me smile even when I want to tear someone's head apartBut he doesn't know thatHow much he makes me happySometimes I want to run awayBut I can't
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.