I life up my pen, think what to write, it’s heavy.

But the thoughts I think, I’m unable to write.
I want to write a poem, but the rhythm chokes,
No one should read it, because, there is no one.
And should you read it, would you understand?

A miracle happened, and just like a miracle it vanished.
And all that there is, is a memory of it.
Love didn’t play any part here, because there was no love, I saw it.
The show is over and so is the magic.
I called upon god; he said it’s not his fault.
My blessings are in my pocket.
My shirt is dirty and so is my shoe,
There is hole in the bucket, and it will not do。


One thought on “9.”

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