back

With a knife on my back I cry
The knife on my back was put by me
He was my heart and soul, my baby love
but this knife on my back got through
his chest through my back and so
I see his tears in the mirror infront
which reflects the mirror at my back.

how can my lips utter words of love?
how can my lips touch his brothers?
how is how a question when it is
how I put the knife that now I
am trapped rapped in missery?
I miss my innocents, I wish I
could be shown how to untie myself
without retieng myself to self destruction.

The self destruction that destructs the
instructions I foward, it rewards me with heartaches
I love him, or loved him… one of
the two but all I wanted was to
be loved back, I lack love to the
back because I develop an allergy
to unattended love, patience does
not have a meaning to me when
the sentence involves love.

let the dove go for it can find
its way to its own, but I can't
I once did, I did let him go
but the tears that were running
down my cheeks for months
could not stand the pain that
striked my heart and soul for
he was my heart and soul…