It's 3 am and I've seen it all.
The event of the future
has again come to haunt.
I thought I was strong
But I cannot let her go.
It's like sand slipping from my hands.
I hear people rant about their past,
The memories haunting them.
Oh, what I would give, what I would do
To bear the tormentations of the past
Than be agonised by the future.
The future.
It's real and rotten.
YOU ARE READING
The Nocturnal Journal
PoetryThe words that help me release the thoughts that keep me from sleeping at night.
