I go home every weekends
And I love how I'd sit on the
Bus watching Sibalom fade
Behind me. And I love the
Familiar scent of Bugasong's
Air getting nearer. And I hate
The fact that there's always
Tomorrow—how time is
Inevitable. When I'm at home
I am afraid to fall asleep, for I
Didn't want a day to end, and I
Didn't want a day to come. But,
I love a day to come near on
Weekdays I spend in Sibalom
So I could go home. I both hate
And love tomorrow, and it's
Stupid.
YOU ARE READING
Carry Me Out
PoetryI wish I'd carry me out of the things I never want to be with. I wish I'd carry me out of this life, to leave what I had dreamed, to neglect what I had sown.
