The tyranny of this empty room
will always be the underlying comfort of no one.

These books left unread, has been the taste of my inglorious pursuit of happiness.

A guitar hanging on the wall collecting dust and rust, is a product of my unremarkable trust with myself.

A single bed that will be slept on later, will be filled with imaginative thoughts of grandeur,
Combined with the thoughts that betrayed me compiled with,
"I should've and could've".

Only this pen latched on to my hand to carve the honest words,
This paper to produce erasures of beautiful sentences.
The writer that will bear the coming of tomorrow.