My head is roomy than three days ago,
but I can't stop think about it, It's eating me,
is something will never stop,
and I think that it was what I've been
looking for.
If it'd be real, for sure you were kissing
my lips in that twilight night, but that's it,
just a dream, just a fantasy I am in,
picking up things make my head crush.
This is suffer, super-cool-masochism.
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I know that you're an artist, the hardest one to deal with. Everything you conceal is revealed on your canvas. You find all of your ugly meanings in the things I find beautiful. Do you see the fall is coming? You painted me in pastel, colors that don't tell of any boldness. That's the way you'd love to see me: so delicate, so weak, so little purpose. Your eyes are black so cold, they're so imperfect. They see a sleeping world, where waking isn't worth it. How, can you live without your lies?
Lovely
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