To read, to write, to watch, to do things untouch
I would be glad to move my joints
But I would be sad to know that pain suddenly joins
Here, I'm dried. My ink has lost its own magic to ride
How often we could wander, if only we don't love something
Will that make life easy?
Will that makes life unhappy?
Will I still go back to writing?
How often do we want to quit
Grip on hair, creased forehead, waiting the fire to lit itself
But how can they burn us if we are not to dwell?
And how can it heat us if we're too cold to be real?
A/N:
Lutang, I don't make sense. I know. Chour it makes sense naman for me. Dili ko lang na deliver. Lutang litang lutang
YOU ARE READING
One Hundred Fifty
RandomFifty, Fifty, Fifty A writing challenge for myself is to create fifty poems, fifty essays, and fifty one-shot stories, every single prekeng day to make it a hundred and fifty days of honing my skills and giving sparks to my interest. Here's the deal...
