It goes by, even if you riddle this,
Draw a circle that rides in an endless loop,
And find yourself lost in the maze of your own mind.
How do you do it?
How do you sit back to only be surrounded in the webs.
How do you play when the steer loses control?
You loose, for the victory of your own loss.
You shape, the battle of your own misery, to only drown in it.
You lie on the edge, for the conclusion, awaits you.
The grief will break loose, the hurt will ache, the course of voice will be stagnant,
The time will be lost,
Only to earn the you, you lost years before.
YOU ARE READING
The diary
PoetryThe diary of randomly ranting someone, to get through days of melancholy or misery.
