I am a writer who doesn’t write, a poet without words in their mind. I am silent and stoic after every bad dream. The walls around my thoughts are taller than Everest but they never rest. I am too black and blue to show my colours, I simply stay away from others. There is music in my veins and in my blood, I sing and dance until I have to stop. Oh, I used to be young and carefree. No, that’s not true, I always lived in a cage. And from time to time, I am consumed with this inner rage. I hate myself and every moment that I breathe. But I love life and am not ready to leave.
Continue reading “mostly cloudy”
reflections of an unquiet mind 