2 a.m. thoughts sometimes turn into all day thoughs; the type that consume you whole and throws you in a hole, that makes you question your sanity with existential questions, craving what you desire, but don't have, what you want, but can't. And you're sorrounded by numbness that feels too much, everything too fresh, too raw. Where everything is a contradiction, and everything is far from perfect. Sometimes those kind of days are the loneliest. Sometimes is the good kind of solitude, within yourself that takes you to the edge of everything and nothing, where muse becomes tangible and everything flows. Sometimes it's the type of lonesome of a plain void, where you can't seem to grasp who you are and everything is and feels stuck. Stuck in a loop, in your life, wondering it's worth and yours. I hate that I love, and love that I hate these "all day thoughs".
Author's note:
I think we all have our own versions of those days.
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Writing to breath
PoetryI live vicariously through writing. I share myself in pages. I'm a word wonder. Soup for the soul. This is a space to write about what I feel and hopefully everyone can relate to a certain degree. I started this on Instagram, but here I'll accept r...
