In my sleepess night,
I wish to hold on to you tight,
tight that it is mighty,
that makes me feel like almighty.
Picture frames with endless thoughts of melancholia
beside the paper tulips that give me castalia.
If only I could tear this paper tulips in a jar,
sorrows inside my chest will surely crash like a crashing car.
Every child's favorite story is an adult's worst fairytales.
If imagination truly maims me mentally,
it may bleed into the physical, for delusion knows no boundary.
Being liked yet never pursued—how common it is nowadays.
But do I really I have to endure it?
You are like the wind that passes through my bones without any traces left behind.
As you drift through the air wherever you may be, you must know I am still affected by you.
This scar remain, a stain no washing can erase, engraved upon me forevermore.
Only time will tell, like it's folklore.