(Late night thoughts of admiration for beautifully sculptured women and their indifference of the beauty they held within.)
She doesn't know :
She writes and speak of only words, forming sentences that dances through the mist and fades through meadows as smooth as the nature of flow.
She doesn't know, she doesn't know.
And unknowingly ,she brings these words to her familiar shelter--That the number of affections she was showered with are offered without a beg and took a lifetime of a deranged soul to achieve.
She doesn't know. She doesn't know.
Blessed with the world's diamonds and gold. A nicely almost perfectly dimensional body curves and a face of the sunrays which could melt the gold liquid heart and stop the blood from running through the veins of the boys.
Yet she doesn't know, she doesn't know.
And all of my words all of my voice and all of me could not manipulate could not reach out to the skylines of hers.
She doesn't know, she doesn't know.
To understand the jems and rich luscious pretty things one can hold is the simplest yet most contradictory theory to master. But I have figured from the start and yet she who dreamt of the moon and stars --
she doesn't know, she doesn't know.
While I continue and caught up with the branches, reaching out to keep myself rooted in my melancholy. I thought I knew of the revolutions of the earth and that in our solar
system there's 9
planets, 204 countries,
809 islands, 7 seas.
A complexity of the self-consumed human mind where thoughts comes in waves; Tonight I'm drowning.
She never know, she never know.
