It's hard to find a name and describe it in one word.
It's hard to find a name and describe it in one word.
Quietly beautifully life in life, and behold a huge stone of sadness and strikes my chest with all my
mass. I lose balance and fall. Chest pain, no breath. I wander on the ground like a warrior shot. This
is partly the case. I am a warrior in life, I was just overwhelmed by sadness. Find the facts. If you
want to swing on that yellowish tree from the winter after the grass, try to go. I crossed my hand
over the chest. She's wet. Red blood marks remain on your hand. The foot caresses some strangely
soft thing with care. Ooo, a piece of my heart. Not much has been left, and this part is not very good.
Shot after the shot, a stone under the stone, and my heart will soon stop. Sadness loves to loot it and
slice it into pieces. And I've had a long time as a hustler. Going down hand and bleeding and breathing,
I go further. Blood drops, leaving a red footprint on the dusty road.
Step by step I go. I agree with many people, many of them ask what happened, why I'm bloody.
I say nothing and pass through them as a wall. They are insensitive, they don't care. They're just
asking, they don't want me to see their bloody and small heartbreaking eyes on their left. Maybe well. I never wanted to put others in trouble. And for others, it seems terrible for me to put my troubles on me and watch with the pleasure of getting my knees and back from a heavy burden. Their burden , which they themselves have to bear, and not on my shoulders.
They all ask, but no one accesses a damp piece of material and does not sweep away virtually
infectious blood, no one reaches or pulls a small piece out of their heart and does not put it in mine.
Everyone believes that only questions and words can help. I don't remember when the last word helped
me in this situation. Yes, in certain situations, they help, but not just like mine. I need a man who
would put a handkerchief without words and hug and not just ask "what's not?". Maybe it's good that
I have to survive everything because I don't want to become selfish and one of those who like to put
my wounds on other necks. It is much better to fight yourself.
Finally, I reach my room with a box of threads. Shaking hands in your pocket to safely lie in your
heart pieces and try to sew them in one piece, one whole. I don't put them back on my chest.
No need. I put them in a safe place, maybe someone else will need it, because I don't need it for
a long time. If I have a heart, I will lose my resilience to sorrow, and I will be able to suffer again
as he ruptures my heart. How do you bold her into pieces, and I am hopefully trying to collect
everything again. No more for me.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Quietly beautifully life in life, and behold a huge stone of sadness and strikes my chest with all my
mass. I lose balance and fall. Chest pain, no breath. I wander on the ground like a warrior shot. This
is partly the case. I am a warrior in life, I was just overwhelmed by sadness. Find the facts. If you
want to swing on that yellowish tree from the winter after the grass, try to go. I crossed my hand
over the chest. She's wet. Red blood marks remain on your hand. The foot caresses some strangely
soft thing with care. Ooo, a piece of my heart. Not much has been left, and this part is not very good.
Shot after the shot, a stone under the stone, and my heart will soon stop. Sadness loves to loot it and
slice it into pieces. And I've had a long time as a hustler. Going down hand and bleeding and breathing,
I go further. Blood drops, leaving a red footprint on the dusty road.
Step by step I go. I agree with many people, many of them ask what happened, why I'm bloody.
I say nothing and pass through them as a wall. They are insensitive, they don't care. They're just
asking, they don't want me to see their bloody and small heartbreaking eyes on their left. Maybe well. I never wanted to put others in trouble. And for others, it seems terrible for me to put my troubles on me and watch with the pleasure of getting my knees and back from a heavy burden. Their burden , which they themselves have to bear, and not on my shoulders.
They all ask, but no one accesses a damp piece of material and does not sweep away virtually
infectious blood, no one reaches or pulls a small piece out of their heart and does not put it in mine.
Everyone believes that only questions and words can help. I don't remember when the last word helped
me in this situation. Yes, in certain situations, they help, but not just like mine. I need a man who
would put a handkerchief without words and hug and not just ask "what's not?". Maybe it's good that
I have to survive everything because I don't want to become selfish and one of those who like to put
my wounds on other necks. It is much better to fight yourself.
Finally, I reach my room with a box of threads. Shaking hands in your pocket to safely lie in your
heart pieces and try to sew them in one piece, one whole. I don't put them back on my chest.
No need. I put them in a safe place, maybe someone else will need it, because I don't need it for
a long time. If I have a heart, I will lose my resilience to sorrow, and I will be able to suffer again
as he ruptures my heart. How do you bold her into pieces, and I am hopefully trying to collect
everything again. No more for me.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
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