the only thing that's left is the manuscript,
one last souvenir from my trip to your shores.
now and then i reread the manuscript,
but the story isn't mine anymore.
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.
the manuscript
the only thing that's left is the manuscript,
one last souvenir from my trip to your shores.
now and then i reread the manuscript,
but the story isn't mine anymore.
