A fragile girl,with hair just as white as fresh snow.Her heart pounding,and her stomach growling below.Off her shoulder,grows a tree.As black as her eyes,and them, you can't even see.What the tree represents,is up to you.But remember my friend,we all carry trees too.
The teardrops run down,and fall off her nose.She cries in dark corners,where nobody goes.You can follow the tracks,from her eyes to her chin.Years upon years,and letting them win.Her eyes tell a story,of anger and pain.You think that she's happy,well just look again.The scars of her past,hidden under her clothes.They are a roadmap to places,that nobody knows.
I don't know how to be anything other than intense.I don't know how to experience without feeling and thinking too much.I don't know how to sit still and quiet my mind and just be.I am always searching, always questioning and struggling to find the meaning in everything.I am passionate and I am deep.And that's why I am so often so misunderstood.
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.