It was the same routine. Like a daily monotonous job. That part of life we have no control over. And we are forced to sit through it brooding through what our life has become and what would it become. But that unpleasant stream of thoughts
Moments pure wash up my gate, My eyes hold rivers of faint memories That pour out one by one, Like a touch of a girl in my hand – Soft and not from this world. Of whispers sent through the wind When I was too
I am walking.I think I am;The road walks the other way.A tiny kiosk sells death in all sizesWhile people flock in huge numbers to die;They ask for their favorite cigarette flavors.A girl preens her hair trying to findWhat she doesn’t look like in a vehicle’s