I don't know what else to write
Than these feelings I cannot define
Words cannot even be found
To perfectly say this things that I want
It starts with the little voice in my head
Shouting, begging, saying, "Your other self is still laying on your bed."
"Then who am I?" I said
"You? You're the coward perfectionist fear of everybody's expectation."
"How to get back?" I ask.
"There's no other way. Burn yourself in every possible day."
I though eternal never came
But this... feels like it so who to blame?
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...
