terça-feira, 8 de maio de 2007

Poetry that does not rhyme: Getting slower

I’m getting tired.
Oh, so tired.
You make me sick.
You make me mad.
The way you get me crazy.
The way you tell me you’re better than me.
It’s just nauseous.
Nobody makes me fell like this.
Nobody makes me jealous.
And still, qhen I look at you, holding another guy.
Holding another man.
I get mad.
I get jealous.
No one makes me fell like this.
Are you special?
Are you better then all the others?
May be your smaller?
It’s possible.
What ever is the reason, I can’t stand it.
And I’m getting worse.
I can only see you as mine.
As my greatest treasure, my greatest pride, my girl.
And yet, you’re not.
I can’t stand it.
I prefer to know you’re sad, then to know you’re happy in another man’s harms.
I couldn’t barrier that reality.
I’m sorry.
And I won’t.
You will probably be the cover of the magazines:
“Girl killed by someone that loved her.”
Well, you’ll have your minutes of fame.
And me, well, I’ll live in the mystery.
Thinking, in the years I have left, if I would make you happy.
If I was the right one for you.
It doesn’t matter now.
You’re lying seven foot underground, and I’m resting behind steel bars.

Sem comentários: