Toying with the irony of being a writer - the sheer power you have over your characters
- and all those stories and embryonic ideas inside your head that are never expressed, but forced to remain an idea.
haunting the dark alleys of my mind.
This... ghostly character
Dressed in the colour that blinds
In the deep valleys she tries to find
Compassion.
Dark thougts fashioned in cynical scenes.
All that remains within the veins
A perception was all, she would never cease to be.
Deception was all, she would never cease to see.
Her long silver hair
Wrote madness through the air
She did not care.
She kept on speaking her mind
Even though
there were those Who wanted her
They wanted her to realize her life was just a dream
They wanted her to see, that nothing is the way it seems
They wanted her to understand,
That she was living in a land
Fashioned by another mind in cynical scenes.
She never found compassion in the alleys of my mind
She lived her life in solitude, 'cos I could never find
The will to let her have a soul, the will let her live
Those things i'd never give
I kept her in my puppet strings and wrote her life in broken things
Apathy my surname, nougth but a cynical mind
Utterly unkind
Poetry by Lalando
Read 526 times
Written on 2006-04-11 at 14:49
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- and all those stories and embryonic ideas inside your head that are never expressed, but forced to remain an idea.
A perception
She just persistedhaunting the dark alleys of my mind.
This... ghostly character
Dressed in the colour that blinds
In the deep valleys she tries to find
Compassion.
Dark thougts fashioned in cynical scenes.
All that remains within the veins
A perception was all, she would never cease to be.
Deception was all, she would never cease to see.
Her long silver hair
Wrote madness through the air
She did not care.
She kept on speaking her mind
Even though
there were those Who wanted her
They wanted her to realize her life was just a dream
They wanted her to see, that nothing is the way it seems
They wanted her to understand,
That she was living in a land
Fashioned by another mind in cynical scenes.
She never found compassion in the alleys of my mind
She lived her life in solitude, 'cos I could never find
The will to let her have a soul, the will let her live
Those things i'd never give
I kept her in my puppet strings and wrote her life in broken things
Apathy my surname, nougth but a cynical mind
Utterly unkind
Poetry by Lalando
Read 526 times
Written on 2006-04-11 at 14:49
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
