I knoweth this isn't the loveth but thy smileth is something i wanteth to gaze,
thy eyes art something mine own eyes wanteth to meeteth,
at which hour our faces art near i wanteth to feeleth thy breatheth.
i knoweth this isn't loveth
but thy presence exagg'rate the stout sensation,
making 't burneth down, the breatheth becomes heavy,
i wand'r if 't be true this is just wanteth corse demands 'r something i very much wanteth,
I wanteth to bid thee about the scars i holdeth past i hadst,
i wanteth to becometh something thee'll loveth,
though i feareth thee'd nev'r beest the one to falleth backeth,
i wanteth not to has't anoth'r heartbreak,
mine own mind demands what f'r w'rld seemeth imp'rtant as only t is something yond can provideth me auth'rity of mine own living,
i knoweth t isn't loveth but still i wanteth t,
i misprise to admiteth t but our desires aren't diff'rent,
i'm just afraid of regreteth,
though we're not in loveth but i feareth what if 't be true we might receiveth too far to comeback,
or what if 't be true we remaineth too much h're yond we nev'r able to gath'r v'ry much from th're.
CZYTASZ
Whisper Of A Silent Heart: Loving And Romanticising
Poezja"My love was as cruel as my nightmares, and it was as beautiful as my daydream, which never dare to turn itself into reality, neither did it ever ended like a daydream, the agony kept hanging me like that of half hope, the hope kept hanging me like...
