They are made for the making, not for seeing once more. Yet in reality, this is what happens. Books are filled with them and people unknown. Throughout generations, they are there. Dusted off and handed down they are kept. Smiles and crying in the spirit of them.
YOU ARE READING
My Unstable Poetry
PoetryA diary of sorts. 2015-2017. A poetry collection of angst, depression, and epiphanies.
