Of Muses And Other Ghosts
This Poem Will End It
I made a childish mistake
by dragging you across so many poems.
It's not right for you, or for me
to chain my heart by your ankles
or to throw my words upon your skin, like rain,
when I know, that you hate so much the rain.
So, I guess that I have to stop
straying your pieces, among words
or exposing to the eyes of strangers, my real heart,
the one hiding, from everyone that I fear.
This poem will end it, my try
to write you a poem, better than his poem,
the poem to return me my november.
April is here, and May will follow soon.
Farewell my lovely autumn. Farewell!
See, I'm a big boy now,
I'm even pushing you away.
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