. . .
A question to you
To the demon that stays in my head
To the letter I wrote to which I never gave an end
To the book that gave me hope in dead
To the pessimism that baked my day red
And I said,
" Do you love me enough to have stayed this long inside my head?"
The book, the letter, the pessimism then fell quiet,
They got tired from my constant need to clarify.
But my demon chuckled and gave a cry,
"You are a cathedral of hope that is dead,
And you would rather burn yourself red
Than change your locks and be fed
With Love, the only medicine to your sad."
And I think that
My demon loves me more , (my bad)
With a teary glare and a little courage that I always lacked,
I whispered to my demons,
" You have my permission not to ever love me back."
_s.k.
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