It pains me though, the love of a friend, lost to the ones i thought love. I breathe and sleep for the joys and pleasures that the world shall never give to me. For pain and lust brings hatred into the soul, which i have obtained. My heart tainted and ruined by the tarnishes of this world, and lost to it, my mind makes amends.
I see it now, as a old paper novel, where love and death ruled, and it was only in true love where there was happyness. Now i see, that in fact it was not a love story which was made their love, but ache of the fragile heart that i see now as a broken bone to a unstable heart.
As the mind travels weary upon dreams and scars. Hopes and losses, to find some serenity in the forsaken world that upon we live. That I too, through my love, and my hatred, will see another day, where the sun will shine upon the large forests once more. Where pity and suffering exists not, and the love and heart of them can grow.
I fear, as life prosper i prosper not. For when life is enriched in joy, i not be. This joy inpending comes when pain drills through the mind, and shatters the heart, I dream not of this but of joy. Dreams as dreams subtle be, i scream in them for peace and mercy i will never know of. My heart seeks not for the joys and splenders that this world can give. But for a love true, and true through wich i can rest my head upon.
But alas, it be not that joy which i recieve, but a pain within hearts that return. As blood from bleeding wounds doth sever, and things of which pain doth feel. Tears that shed tears not fear upon that of lies that a mind creates. I pray too that my soul be redeemed, For by pain and sufferin i live now more than ever, and hurt fills my bones like a river.
A heart reconsiled by the actions of past that wish she to go away. Where pain rises and fate falls, against things such fragile heart mends. Though by pain and suffering makes the heart blind, and that it seems that joy makes amends not for hurts.
For I pray for mercy and love of which i cannot grasp. It is as thought of as gone, but heartless and broken may the bones be of a protrait frame. Pain that bleeds, yet again by this wound that hath been formed upon my flesh, not by my own hand, but by the pains by which my heart makes. Where love upon which not be hindered by the pains that shall be given, but infact shall flourish by in good time, a love that loves more than love can shall form. Till then, thy heart shall ache, more than ache it should.
And by this apending death, i shall suffer on more, for love was taken from me oh so earnestly
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