My past is like a stain that paints each new place, and face.
A mind which seeks release and an essence that continues to cease.
'Tis a burden resting within my body, disallowing any newfound story.
"Dusty dialogues, foggy monologues."
Sentences strewn about and borrowed, without much doubt.
Quotations so seemingly true, I resort to attaching myself to more than a few.
Spirals in which I continue; imprisoned words I need to see through.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
My past is like a stain that paints each new place, and face.
A mind which seeks release and an essence that continues to cease.
'Tis a burden resting within my body, disallowing any newfound story.
"Dusty dialogues, foggy monologues."
Sentences strewn about and borrowed, without much doubt.
Quotations so seemingly true, I resort to attaching myself to more than a few.
Spirals in which I continue; imprisoned words I need to see through.
