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■ The oak
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You have read these poems.
Now I know how you feel. But don't think I'll stop. A cockroach can't be killed. Next to you, I fade. My shame is just to great. Why do I write these? When you'll just turn away? You are like a fly, To my butterfly net. Someday you'll be caught, But that day isn't yet. I am the mad man, Who pins the flies to walls. One day I could hurt The fly that brings me awe. So please fly away, Here comes I, so go. You don't need my pain, But still I love you so.
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