I feel as though the writer of my story has started to showcase my character development.
I also feel life is about to fuck me over very soon.
Yet, I can't seem to find it in me to really care. Come what may, I'll be illprepared and it'll be unforgiving, but I shall smile and live until I have to scrap myself off the asphalt like gum. After I trust myself to build a sculpture too beautiful for the human eye. It will exude love and acceptance. No judgement. Pure effort for understanding.
Effort in order to understand the things that seem odd to the outsider.
YOU ARE READING
Fuck You, Nicely
PoetryOne finding themselves, ups and downs; streams of melancholy and yearning of the heart. Contains time stamps of a life that seem to fade too fast and rants through life lessons I often forget. There might be some triggers with eating and just mental...
