Passed by me without as much as a notice, not real pain
Not even real love in the since of passion,
A heart so cold warming up to no new ideas getting hurt,
Over and over again,
Tears rolling down my eyes not knowing what to feel,
Neither what to say can words explain how I feel,
Alive or not alive that I must feel,
To write in a book can I stand it moving forward with only smiles,
Can I take the feelings?
“Every year without knowing if I have passed,
When the last fires will wave to me”
Will I be okay in my own skin looking into mirrors comparing,
Am I beautiful enough or being truthful to myself?