i'm slipping from myself
because my future is fluid
everyday, i meet myself
for the nth time
the days are baking away
like water in a desert
and i think
that maybe
nothing
ever
truly
matters.
the days
are less than pages in a book
yesterday is nothing
but faded fragments,
erased without force,
melting down and disintegrated
floating away, only to be forgotten
like a stray balloon.
(it used to exist but where's the proof that you can feel?)
we live in today's memory and we call it real.
YOU ARE READING
PILLOW
Poetrywhen my head hit the PILLOW, i dreamt of words and painted them with letters, hoping to release. hoping to find peace.
