A lamp post.
Light reflects through the window.
Trees shadows.
A firefly.
Closed museum,
Vacant tables and chairs of a café,
One pack of cigarette.
A book.
–
A girl sitting alone.
Struggling to write—
To fill in the emptiness inside her.
She lit the last stick,
Playing with the smoke
She is lost
And sick.
Of laughter’s by a nearby crowd
Through the bushes hides a cicada
Singing the song of the night.
…
Stop staring at the sky
There are no falling stars to wish upon.
Go home.
Before loneliness struck your heart
No one wants you.
And your bed is a deathbed waiting for you.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
A lamp post.
Light reflects through the window.
Trees shadows.
A firefly.
Closed museum,
Vacant tables and chairs of a café,
One pack of cigarette.
A book.
–
A girl sitting alone.
Struggling to write—
To fill in the emptiness inside her.
She lit the last stick,
Playing with the smoke
She is lost
And sick.
Of laughter’s by a nearby crowd
Through the bushes hides a cicada
Singing the song of the night.
…
Stop staring at the sky
There are no falling stars to wish upon.
Go home.
Before loneliness struck your heart
No one wants you.
And your bed is a deathbed waiting for you.
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