sometimes, screaming out to the emptiness surrounding the mountains is all you want.
but i'm sad and tired, so let's pretend that trees and unexplored paths exist in this place, and that it's not just meaningless letters stringed up to be words;
these are repressed patches too quiet to be heard.
YOU ARE READING
young.
Poetryaren't we the lucky ones? we get to feel dead when we're supposed to be living. a collection of scrap paper rambles when i was younger.
