I realized that writing was more on emotion, well, more like poetry.
But I feel as though I wasn't good enough for that. Thus, I will only write, what is in me. We never make sense. Reality doesn't even have sense. Thus, this is nothing important.
I grabbed my pen, and lifted the paper that fell onto the ground near my chair which is placed before my table. And as that, my hands began to move, the stars in my eyes went into explosions.
The stars trampled, the galaxy set ablaze.
The universe in spite. Everything is ripped through.
All that is now left are the absence of light. Darkness.
I sighed and slumped down. I've been looking for an explanation as to Why I have this weird unidentified feeling after you left.
I just found it. You we're my light.
YOU ARE READING
Set The Mood
ChickLit"You only ever focus on the Sun. Sadly, I was the Moon." We all know, what we read tends to affect what we think, or what we dream (day-dream) about. For example, if you read something funny; you'd either be really funny or your day-dreams will be...
