mon poème

wheels of fate roll to the place that never end.

have the clouds covered, people could not see the paths to Heaven,

even the angels lost their way back home.

romantique histories happen there and here and there then

expire somewhere.

is there always a way for

someone who is out of hope?

Mt. Everest is still Mt. Everest when

years go by.

how could our lives be without

everlasting objects?

avoir un amour qui est le plus beau dans le monde?

ramener mes histoires et

turn them into jokes.

be a person that is loved by everyone is never an

easy thing,

let alone me.

only the journal can understand my journey.

not because i am a freak but i dont

get used to

tell

others what i thought.

?