About scratched hearts.
Gratitude is now breathtaking,
inflicted by treachery.
And now the face is painted in tears.
The subject of a heart that is again hurt,
now in my chest I feel sore.
It's useless tie up a promise,
if in fact no longer cares.
The promise you bind to a pigeon.
Now, you lie to your treacherous soul.
Really; my heart is now torn,
sliced by thousands of daggers from your eyes.