I go on without thinking about what to look forward to. So I go on thinking about why I have nothing to look forward to. We see ugly traces left behind by the pen, and the ink then bleeds to tell a story that was forced and unheard, yet was it typical that it stung? because passion died a long, long time ago?
"One stab in the heart, another in the hand, please," I say, begging my muse to be the foe. "A sudden twist in my neck, more fractures in my knuckles to give my soul the sweet release." And it will sound like excuses when all it ever was? an untended, dried-up plant yearning for its time to last.
Exhibit #7: What if I stopped making excuses?
YOU ARE READING
a collection of odd stories in jane doe's head
PoetryWhat of life? What of death? Here we have an unnamed character swallowing different kinds of worlds through her imagination. One question rises in her head, then another. It's quite a tale, isn't it? None like no other.
