it's the pain of broken promises
and the pain of not being told
and being alone to see the story unfold
that hurts the most
the novel worked well in collaboration
now i am face to face with a block
i speed ahead only to crash into a rock
only to be finished off
posthumously i will be heard
on the tongues of those
who've played no part in my prose
and it hurts the most
lover could you speak well of me?
bury me with flowers
let others know and devour
how i loved you hour after hour
till the end
be it bent and twisted
maybe you and i will recur in adaptation
maybe the best-selling sensation
but i will never know
lover could you speak well of me?
bury me with flowers
let others know and devour
how i loved you hour after hour
till the end
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