<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=494230" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Fear Of Being Followed...</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">i am afraid that my words have become your fetters, <br>so i stop talking<br>but the more i keep the silence within the frame<br>like a painting<br>the more i feel the brokenness of <br>my face<br>i touch each portion with the fingers<br>only to feel the roughness of<br>my soul</div><div style="margin:10px 0">i am afraid i am clearing a path for you to follow me<br>you think it is a right direction and you write my name in your notebook<br>i am paranoia<br>look, there is no path, this is not the path, this path is <br>merely an attempt <br>to find my world, not yours, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">i am afraid that i may be responsible for another loss, <br>and so i quit<br>i still have other places to go<br>each step i erase like a scribbling of a chalk on the board<br>there is no scent in my<br>vowels, no color in my consonants</div><div style="margin:10px 0">look, look inside your throat<br>there is something red there like a sunset<br>there is no shadow of a tree<br>in fact, there is nothing there<br>to fill the thirst<br>and the hunger</div><div style="margin:10px 0">i leave you now, <br>and for sure, i assure you, you will be happier<br>without me</div><div style="margin:10px 0">if you follow me still, <br>the rope shall win.....</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ric+S.+Bastasa">Ric S. Bastasa</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=494230" data-title="The Fear Of Being Followed... de Ric S. Bastasa" data-description="i am afraid that my words have become your fetters, so i stop talking but the more i keep the silence within the frame like a painting the more i feel the brokenness of my face i touch each portion with the fingers only to feel the roughness of ..."></div> </div> </div>

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