Among my stillness was a pounding heart.
When the person you love can't see your love for them beneath the painful things you say when they reject you, remember this: Love is blind.
Every night, I laid awake with your memories flooding through my eyes with the hope to be with you when sleep arrived.
I must have been a poet, that might justify the high sensibility drifted apart. But then, I ask myself: “What is a poet without his voice of happiness?” “What is a poet when his sensibility is found in nothing but fatal solitude and deep melancholy?!” My beliefs pour into unfounded questions of my soul's floated songs. (Excerpted from Tears of pain, chapter Pain)