It's a beautiful day outside, where the murderers lurk out at night. You can hear the laughs of children screaming and babies crying, you can hear the chuckles of teenage suffering and adults wondering what they will be.
Gravestones and mourning widows, cancer and pathetic considers made up the human race like no other being could do. A hundred years ahead of me, and I can't even see. Nobody could breathe in this air that was once so fair - a few centuries ago. Works of art were the start of this destruction that created this construction of dust created by our own self. "We were in denial" or "we just couldn't tell" were the reminding bells that we were stepping in our own slaughter. We thought we were becoming stronger, but the consenquences were fatal. We created a horror we thought was made up of honor, only to have us below our one hundred year ago selves. No matter the amount of pleas we sent to Mother Earth, this was the end of our story.
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Breathe [Collection of Short Stories/Spoken Word]
PuisiCONTENT MAY BE TRIGGERING. Few short stories (and spoken word poetry) about the daily struggle for millions of people around the world. Whether or not you are aware of these problems, one many, unfeasibly cannot fit in our shoes. They know the probl...
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