On what account am I touching these words ?

Fifteen days I spent, with such unseen lethargy. Yet I dare write. It has been, maybe, the friendliest fifteen days. Then I learned not what I had known, learned a lot.

I know every trace of a pictured broken heart. In you, I beheld none. Was it my eyes mooned much, or you crafting perfection out of a role ? Each word you spoke, you spoke with too much rage. I, slayed with each and every one, bespoke no promise for a more serene sky. For I had supposed so fast a self, I could not run away from the rain, bringing me myself, and slowly instilling pain.

My soul is now but purified or so believe I. Wrath's single drop is more concentrated, than all those merriest oceans. Of all the things I did, I now do write. I wonder, at the end, what I will have written. That I lied for my enjoyment, or that I thought me myself, not those who surround ? Oh, what will I write ?

Time-sharp was your each word. I was a child playing with my truth and my lies. Then each worth a thrice longer lifetime, your words aged me with time's untimely winds. I was not a child then. A man with time-drunk cells could not be as infant, not be a child.

Teacher, I now see what a mistake I have made. I fear descrying doubt in words thine. One more "Shall I believe ?" and one may get all what is mine. I beg for no more fine. Test me but keep not under endless custody. Never in my life have I tasted such inconfidence, nor do I know, with a liar self if I will ever, confidence find.

From my darker past, to a brigther future, with your lucifer ink I am now re-worked. With edges thrice sharper than before, this self I behold is now Translated.

Oh, but not forgiven until you forgive...

I can not change. Could the nightly thief miscoloured white, stop stealing its beauty from the sun ?, Do the nightingale not sing any more or the harshest seas not wave many wandering souls their final goodbye ?

It was not that I thought myself to be at position to teach a teacher a lesson. You just happened to walk through my byways, from my whole one little section. Whatever you call such an unminded action, do know; even the most beauteous lacks the perfection. Let alone one mind's one uttered reflection.

Spectacular you call that which is placed in front but behind you leave such unprecedented sincerity. Versify your feelings for such unfeeling bodies hanging still in disguise, then call my versified art smelling much of a rose, a simplicity, not a simple lie. If all lies have too short a date, then why I feel condemned to tales with no sighted end.

Soul, battlefield to the war of good and ill, can itself oftentimes wear off . Off goes then the warriors of both sides and the left knows only how to do foul. Thus I, the commander of these both sides, will not let them slaughter a silk-smooth form formed by emotional tides. My good shall not learn how to hold swords even for the sake of gods, nor shall my ill be inventor to many deflowered pods.

Alack, I am but no more than a perfect imperfection. Now should you wish you had forgiven this fulsome individual, remember the thought that once individual, he now is divided into two section. One, is that of a blinding light. One is so dark, so already blind. Forgive and bestow me of good side, my endless tuition.