Naughty me,
Who's dreamt things beyond the ordinary.
Who's fondled things that must not be.
He, who immerses in unhealthy viewpoints?
Yes, that boy was me.
Naughty me,
Seeing myself commit to acts of depravity,
As if my hands become clean as the sun rises.
I feel icky, and it was all me.
And yet, the boy who rises up in the morning,
He, who has managed leave the cesspool of dead roses,
What is his identity?
Is he me?
And he, who has parted with the freed soul above,
He, who still clings to the filth,
Can he be guaranteed to be not free?
Naughty he,
Who still dreams of a world where disgust is key,
He, who still wallows in the blood
Like a bull on a puddle of mud,
After a while,
Can he really be parted away from me?
We shall see.
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Poetry Of A Count
ПоэзияThis book is not suitable for audiences with zero percent sense of imagination and a mental age of two and below. I'm not really a great poet, just a guy who knows how to hold the pen and write the twenty six letters of the alphabet. But I like thin...
