My mind is like the scraping of nails on a chalkboard.
Screeching.
Screaming.
Ear-piercing.
.
.
.
.
.
I hate the noise of nails on a chalkboard.
It reminds me of how much I hate my mind.
And myself.
YOU ARE READING
A Prose With No Direction
SpiritualA prose with no direction. A mind with no guidance. A human without a purpose. That is the kind of story I hate to be. That is the kind of story I, unfortunately, am.
