You can spend you afternoons curled up in a ball, Or you can run a mile. It won't change much for me, cause I'll be gone for a long while.
No need to rush things, because they have not been found. Still sleeping in their stillness of the ground.
My insides are like a volcano, boiling up something good. When I'll get the nerve to shut it down, I'll just be misunderstood.
Everything is tangled up there, with a thick grey fog. When thoughts of you scatter, oh what a disaster.
hina-25 · Thu Dec 18, 2008 @ 12:58am · 0 Comments |