Our hearts lie,
Our pleasures deceive.
This myth of "love,"
Does all but succeed.
Our wanting,
Our Yearning
For all that comes in ease,
Leaves us with nothing,
But a soul that just bleeds.
We wish to be loved.
We wish to be pleased.
Our sins spreads through us,
Just like a disease.
A disease that wills,
Only what kills.
One that gives not love,
But only to please.
My heart lies,
My pleasure deceives.
I feel it coursing through me,
Just like a disease.
