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إيران181 240 الدافع و الاقتباس17 012

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i only live because i didn't die yet.

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give me something to grasp, false truth or fake hope. we say yes to death.

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2:21 i make myself sick, born with thoughts of disappointment. hands out, palms dry.

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come back the line like eager sadness. a knife hollows them out. a thin skin of black letters.

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under the cold of tears, she'll decay and be warm. the style is death; a white rose in a morphine dream, a joke to amuse life, goodbye into a snowstorm. while you shake the thoughts, memories of conversation.

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in my بزنن تموم شیم راحت شیم era.

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never let a bad day distract you from the fact that it gets even worse.

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3:30 i wear those wounds like shadows stitched to the bone.

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i wear the wounds of my mother, in the tears she never shed. they bloom like ghostly flowers in the garden of the dead.

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i wear these wounds their all in silence, but they hum a mournful tune. in the depths of my own darkness, beneath the unforgiving moon.

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in the quiet of the evening when the moon begins to rise, i'm tracing all these hidden bruises in the corners of my eyes.

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i wear the wounds of my father like shadows stitched to the bone, they whisper through the silence in a language all their own. i wear the wounds of my father, and they surface back.

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i wish i could die 11780 time instead of him/her.

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"what are you gonna do for the rest of your life?" try not to end it quickly i guess?

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