At twelve am midnight,
on this solemn day, I
have died.
My heart is beating, and
I am breathing, but I have
without a doubt, died.
You see my soul has died.
There is nothing left of my
beating heart.
My hope has died - along
with my happiness.
Each day, I pray that He
makes my heart stop.
Each day I wish I could
breathe my last.
Each day the colors
fade a little more.
So it's midnight,
and on this solemn day,
I have died.
أنت تقرأ
Poems of the fragile heart
الشعرMy heart bleeds and it fills my pen with ink, and my soul is the paper
