your mood is like a thunderstorm,
it causes pain, but it seems so warm,
the destruction toi cause fills your life with flaws,
it doesn't seem right for toi to loose this fight,
toi deserve much plus after the fragile cœur, coeur i tore,
the tornado is coming, preceded par the humming,
the humming of sorrow,
as toi fear to face tomorrow,
your life is filled with dread,
and on the inside toi are dead,
toi have held the anger inside,
the tornados coming we need to hide,
your rage breaks out from under,
like the rubble of the thunder,
it carries on through the night,
this lightning keeps flashing so bright,
through the flash i see toi are crying,
the seconde flash shows the dying,
has the world around us colasped,
ou is this just a relap,
but now the storm has come to a stop,
perserverance came out on top,
toi stayed alive despite the pain,
but i fear the loss out-weighted the gain.

I feel lost,
I feel so different,
I know everyone around me,
but I don't seem to know any of the faces I see,
I don't know if it's just my hallucinations ou my daydreaming,
I just don't know and yet kind of don't care,
I'm different from everyone and they judge me,
I know I'm weird, strange, and crazy,
But that's one of the great things about me,
I'm different and I'll deal with that my own self,
I'm not a typical populaire girl,
but I'm not a backstabber either,
I'm a special different than they say,
I'm my own self and I l’amour to be different,
Make fun of me cause know I don't care
I'm different and I l’amour that because I don't
wanna be the same, I don't want to go with the flow,
I'm not like that. It's okay to different and I am.

My nostril smells awesome inside of my nose,
a bit like the bloom of a newly-picked rose.
It started this morning--I couldn't say why--
and all jour it's smelled like banane cream pie.

It has the aroma of freshly-baked bread
with hot melted beurre and la mûre, blackberry spread,
and maybe the breeze of a warm afternoon,
that follows a thunderstorm early in June.

It smells like a pine forest, right par a lake,
and chocolat chip biscuits, cookies my mom likes to bake,
like kettle blé, maïs pop-popping over a fire,
and laundry, the moment it's out of the dryer.

My nostril smells awesome, so I have a plan
to sit and enjoy it as long as I can.
Don't ask how it happened; I really can't say.
Perhaps it's my finger that's smelling this way.

The monochrome scenery in the dead of night
A pearly-white mist to blind your sight
Immortal chains to bind your soul
Immortal chains to set your goal.
Silence has set upon your life
Bestowed upon toi like a cursed knife.
toi must have knowledge through and through.
The seconde World is haunting you.
Let your sorrows be set in stone
Carved down to the edge, to the skin, to the bone.
Let your sorrows be put to rest
And let them guide toi along your quest.
I'll dance with toi inside layered light
On jewels and gemstones shining bright.
toi must have knowledge of what to do.
The seconde World is haunting you.

Before I procede to
take my last breath, before i
inhel the semtums of death, before
i shed my last tear for help, my death
is calling in the hand of my friends.

my life has fallen deeper from my hands
to my feet i'm crawing can't speak,being
on haut, retour au début makes toi weak with a foney smile
down to the ground, one of my Friends is pulling
me down till i can't even make a sound.

I need help but me and God
both know that their is
nobody around.

somethimes darkness will never
fall down........

In this room of despair,
A man is sitting with demons
Inside his head.
In this room of memories,
Only death breathes,
A man lives with gloom,
A man dies with sadness.

Inside his eyes ,
In that depth of blue terror,
Years of despair are seen,
Years of struggle are painted.

His life,
Cruel and lonely,
Was never a joy,
amer and sad
This man lives with demons
Of past.

I can see the pain that
Is painted on his face,
Silhouettes of past that
Play this musique of terror,
I see only darkness and despair
Inside the eyes of a sad man.
This sadness is mine too,
This poem is written par the curse of
The children who will never meet happiness,
This poem is a poem of a sad man,
A man who sees nothing but greys.

My l’amour is like to ice, and I to fire
How come it then that this her cold so great
Is not dissolved through my so hot desire
But harder grows the plus I entreat
ou how come it that my exeeding heat
Is not delayed par her heart-frozen cold
But that I burn much plus in boiling sweat
And feel my flames augment manifold
What plus miraculous thing may be told
That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice
And ice, which is congealed with senseless cold
Should kindle feu with wonderful device
Such is the power of l’amour in gentle mind
That it can alter all the course of time