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I’m not a writer of great poetry nor tales.
Not love, not quarrel not written affairs.
But feelings, yes, I’ve apprehended.
Although expression in what will it come?
What form shall take my next emotion?
What shape shall make my next devotion?
Still in search since but a boy,
Of greater love I’ve sought to find.
Made regrets, kills, refined,
Though thinking past before the sever,
Saved above, from what I wonder?
A group, a circle, simply beings,
Saved at once yet sunk with feelings.
Days that past, sewed parted lips.
Reliving days that passed before.
A vicious cycle never ended,
Till words of sacred became undead.
Cut to the bone the core and marrow.
Need of mending a deepest sorrow.
Open doors of time and worth,
Potential bloom from ancient dirt.
Wish still upon that one old scar,
Selfish worth, love, fancy cars.
As worry goes, separate I’m sure,
This road might end or build anew,
But on that scar at least you knew.
One day be gardens of purest
Or wreckage lost, burnt, no treaty.
Either travels this road may go,
My never ending soul, it sewed.
As any house may need a floor,
My leverage, started, is now adorned.
So thanks from me that scar may take,
For it created my final make.