He who does not exist makes me happy
A mere ink on a beautiful covered book
He who is just an invention of mind
Saddens me for he isn't even alive.
I knew he's somewhere,
as if he is real
You think I might go crazy?
But he's more genuine than those who are living.
Man, how it saddens me more
It's just so unfair
Giving me this feeling 'till I sore
his non-existence I couldn't bear.
YOU ARE READING
Syllogés
PoetrySyllogés, a Greek word for collection. This is a collection of thoughts and the author's spur-of-the-moment.
