There is a stabbing whisper;
I can not shape or tell:
A dream of desperate comfort;
A poison in the well.
No sleep of feigned acceptance,
Nor state of \'morrows dead,
Makes me less of an addict;
Can\'t take back what I said.
And through the hallowed peace time,
I dance and beg in turns;
Please won\'t someone just love me?
You know;
I never learn.