This uninformed state of being. Restless to the body and cutting to the soul. It stays mute when answers are dreamed of. A feeling in shambles our definition never close to line.
We give ourself the light of comfort and tell stories of warmness, it will be well we say. But unto the night our tears are robbed on the soft cottons of Mississippi.
Losing has become this idea of time giving pain to us freely. Leaving us with no chapters. It looks from a distance, a smirk on a face untamed.
But how do we tell this story? Where is the thing to crucify for, like christ to earth. Not even a thing can wear the cap of losing. For It eats us up and lay us by the sides of Neverland. We wait hoping someday we wake to daylight when we win again.
Donald
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC
This uninformed state of being. Restless to the body and cutting to the soul. It stays mute when answers are dreamed of. A feeling in shambles our definition never close to line.
We give ourself the light of comfort and tell stories of warmness, it will be well we say. But unto the night our tears are robbed on the soft cottons of Mississippi.
Losing has become this idea of time giving pain to us freely. Leaving us with no chapters. It looks from a distance, a smirk on a face untamed.
But how do we tell this story? Where is the thing to crucify for, like christ to earth. Not even a thing can wear the cap of losing. For It eats us up and lay us by the sides of Neverland. We wait hoping someday we wake to daylight when we win again.
Donald
