Sore Verity

People love my body, but not the me.

I am the doll, a mannequin on that everlasting life window.

They talk to me the lie, when on their burning lips, they tell to know, 

I haven't found that "the One". That my own and intimate. Though, I do

not care, 'cause I am tired of this show, those illusions and dreams, what

seems to have no end. Reality is another chess play, and its men have 

illustrative bloodstains. From last lives, the echoing sins become the bodypainting

of our ancestors.

You love my shell, but you have no idea about my entrails.

you have no idea, what rythm beats my heart,

or on what path those white bloodcells are rushing.