Just like these off days,
This day had become rust of haze,
In life almost everything incomplete,
My notebooks and pen lay dead on my bed,
As it's the dream where a woman led my death,
Men couldn't do it cause I never allowed,
But the pieces of ruination I ever brought together has become,
Some sort of nasty false trapped memory,
Last read a book which say,
Someday we'd tell our own stories as a third person,
Even if the words weren't same that's I took it,
Which were sending me straight to prison,
New prison of false trap,
Sending my shitty brain into some other crap,
Whether to believe in brilliance,
Or to measure myself from a words of man who just figured out his life,
Lord this couldn't be exact truth,
Cause what appears from words was growing is to be worth,
Which might make these words themselves some sort of falsehood,
Yet I'm writing the shit in my head,
Like the burnt of forest dead.
YOU ARE READING
The Mad People's Dorm
Poetry"Mad People's Dorm" is a heartfelt collection of poetry that takes you deep into the emotions and thoughts of someone battling anxiety, betrayal, and inner turmoil. Each poem is a window into a mind that has faced darkness and is striving to find li...
