Don’t You Know, Ghosts Aren’t Real It’s beautiful isn’t it, The way you can look through me, Like a completely pure sea, You can part the fragile sinews, Start a storm of red, red rain, Without believing in my existence, Walk right through me, I’m not really there, A kiss would be too much pleasure, I’ll settle with a touch, Tell me that I’m more real, Than the dead suns that we create, When we dream of our desires, That become others nightmares, Walk right through me, I’m not really there, Taste the blood on my lips, Exposed the bones on my back, So that I can feel alive, If you can catch a better butterfly, Than perfection, Then I’ll stop chasing shadows. ...Opinions anyone
"red, red rain" are our temporary obsessions alike? the piece seems a little broken...but i could call it a good attempt.