Pretending to be
And there you are
Pretending you see
I have always wrongly believed that a world for a world only leads to more blindness.
A heart I can know
A heart I can trust
But why do I find only
That soul full of rust
Perfection is not beauty but a disease that sickens my soul as I must be the impossible.
I am open but closed
I am hiding in dark
We are separated by light
And it is clear as glass
I prefer to live in the black where the world is but an empty slate for me to write upon it whatever is safe.
