We’ve been trying To fix everything Shouting, screaming, crying It keeps us on hurting We say, “I love you” We doubt if it’s true Yet we continue Even though we ain’t got a clue What happened to us? A year has already passed The feelings that we thought is growing Is slowly killing us I love you But I don’t think I deserve you After the countless pains, I have caused you How could I say I love you? This love of ours made me confused In my arms, you’ve been abused Things you didn’t do, you’ve been accused I know by now; you feel so used What else can I do? To make up for all the hardships you’ve been through? All I did was ask for more When you already have given your all Forgive me, my love I made you something you’re not I tortured you, wrecked and damaged your soul As if these were the definition of love Forgive me For I do not know now its meaning Forgive me If we’re now both hurting Forgive me Is all I can say while I’m still breathing SHARE THIS ARTICLE: |
Esthete:
'es-theet' (n.) A person who affects great love of art, music, poetry, etc., and indifference to practical matters. El Esthete or The Aesthete in English, is where I share my Literary works, artworks, and everything else in between. Categories:
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February 24 and 25, 2018, 9AM-7PM, The Elements at Eton Centris |