Imagine I’m your solitude
And taste me like you are alone
No longitude, no latitude,
The road is your eternal home.
I waste my time but I don’t care
I feel so fine when throwing words,
Reality is so unfair,
Sophisticated lifestyle hurts.
Nine milligrams of lunar soil
Is what I got from painful trip,
My skin will burn, my blood will boil,
But I won’t lose my iron grip.
Reflections differ from the place
I’m used to living in so long,
So if I leave, I leave with grace,
And if I act, it’s always wrong.
First impressions of...
© Copyright: Марина Чиянова, 2006
Свидетельство о публикации №106113002634
Свидетельство о публикации №106113002634
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