quarta-feira, 17 de setembro de 2025

WHEN PIGS FLY

you can't judge a book
by its cover 
I did it

something inside my chest whispered,
trust
I did it

now my hope is wounded
my bed is bruised
my soul has flown away

you were not a great book
my stubborn foolishness
wrote your name anyway

but I can't feel again


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