My poems can make
you believe
I am the one
you dream of.
But I am sorry love,
I am the illusionist
you were never
destined to meet.
My poems can make
you believe
I am the one
you dream of.
But I am sorry love,
I am the illusionist
you were never
destined to meet.
I don’t know
what makes us sweat
at midnight,
the summer
or the love.
I know I must
endure this suffering,
For there is no other way.
But I don’t know
how to bear the pain
The ache in my heart is real,
And it’s killing me
inch by inch.
I have lost
the last shred of courage
Yet, beyond this pain,
I hope to remain,
reborn as Buddha again.