i'm just waiting for the snow to fall just to get rid of you.
i might find healing somewhere inside the folklore cabin where i can feel that all of this are just fictional, at least in the forest of imaginations.
but being too dramatic while starving for your words is too heavy for my reference of this stage of grief.
what even are we? nothing, but two strangers talking about random risky things.
but also, no signs of friendship where all can understand it, especially me.
and i'm still here, waiting for the snow to fall to get rid of your presence.
when inside my clueless mind, there's no prophecy when that depressing moment comes.
YOU ARE READING
Desperate Nightmares, Old Habits Die: Prose and Poetry
Poetryi live in a poetic life but dying from your poisonous lies. we live in vain, so we drink until we get drunk in our own mistakes and sins. but still making out with the devils, but in the back of my mind, i'm with you - haunting me stunningly.
