My wounds are still fresh, cuts are deep and hurt like hell
What are we doing here? I just can't tell
Blood is spilling. Only mine. Ugh but I guess I'll have to be ok.
Fuck me eh?
Nah it's cool. I'm a big kid, I can handle the cold and iso.
Time has past and I still write you these letters
Letters of my sorrow. Letters spilling the contents of my heart into mason jars mixed with whiskey and sweet tea.
YOU ARE READING
The Journal Of The Nameless And Faceless
Non-FictionThis is my journal, a slightly egotistical, self centered, loving, faceless and nameless guy.
