When there was spring in your life, a hundred nightingales sang in the meadows; came autumn and even the roses withered. Leave nightingales, now even your tears have left you.
But you, the accursed, have started upon to decorate the world with the withered petals.
The world, where the only comprehensible thing is that it is incomprehensible.
Wonder how long you'll last before droopy petals fill you with dejection.
But before you break, scream.
Scream, to make up for a lifetime of silence.
Scream, on behalf of the deep wounds on your body.
Scream, for a body heavy with tags they've put on it.
Scream, for a body exhausted in its cage.
Scream.
YOU ARE READING
Suicide Justified
Non-Fiction---------------------Trigger Warning------------------- Originally titled 'All the Push You Need (and a little more)' this book intends to do what it says. It'll help increase your cynicism, deepen your depression, give strength to your demons, help...
