I feel incomplete
As a tortured soul should
I feel unwritten
The way any unread book would
Completely I am alone
So fully unwhole
Attempting to reach limits beyond the skies
With the power of my imagination
As yearning each day would
Hide my indignation.
There's no truth to me, nor to my past
There's no lie in my present but a secret passion
With all my devotion my passion forms dreams
Dreams that develope with the power of my imagination
As forming them each day could hide my incompletion.
If a soul is destined to be one as whole
My sould would play the part of a such a soul!
And as any soul,
I divert, I distract and sometimes end up distraught
I ache, I pain and sometimes end up alone.
My book seems finished,
with all the blank pages on fold...
Just like somebody I knew had foretold
Although I wouldn't now know,
Because I don't feel beautiful anymore...
