Woke up from an asylum, all I knew was counting from time to time or rather contemplating nothing but why. I've counted all the flowers given, every minute that passed, and every photograph taken. Even every moment of us has its own numbers. They were much of what I had once. They were questionable to the extent of asking why tranquility has been given to me for months and months, hoping for years. An asylum I was led by, counting all the times from the beginning of our summer to the crowds of winter. Crazy I have been, in love, with all has been.
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Galaxies of Feelings
PoetryWriting is a form of expression of feelings bearing your mind's creative and imaginative thinking and your heart's desire to showcase your art and share the wonders of every letter spoken. Poetry is a type that does the readers an imaginative feeli...
