5:29 a.m.
I yearn for the times of my youth where my stories radiated the light of childish grins and giggles
where have those plots been buried? a cemetery full of mermaids and fairies and loving stories of a boy and a girl, of a mother and her child exploring pink and purple forests and inverted rainbows
now, each stroke of my pen and each individual tap of my keyboard feels like a push of a shovel into a plot of land with my name engraved
now, my written words feel like suicide note drafts that I can never quite get right so the agonizing process stings me again and again because my plight extends up until the end of the writings I never finish
.s
YOU ARE READING
it's 5 a.m. now
Poetrya taste of everything that has made life a little more bitter and on rare occasions; a little sweeter | just an informal way to get thoughts out, i guess
