This was the very second poem I had written, and probably the one closest to me.
What am I afraid of? My heart, the fountain of misery. It fails me, betraying me of myself.
Only to incur more of melancholy. It brings love, during moments rough Hah, my sweet heart: Isn’t love just a labyrinth of anxiety?
It brings hope, to eyes sore. Oh, bless those eyes, Will they ever again be sleepy? I still go on, as a system of scars And in the jungle of memories, I venture the labyrinths each night, Struggling to count the stars.