your face is like a tale and
I want to read every page.

my thinking, the cancer of never letting go, is ignorance bliss, I don't know, but it's so painful to think, and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me, to what great place did thinking ever bring me? I think and think and think, I've thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it.

Recuperated from died soul
Loving father made me whole
mysterious ways are undefine 
Heavenly father wholly thine..

His silence 
Her tears 
An incomplete story is about to end.

Written By Lost strangers

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