I started writing poetries
But all I could read from it was
The sound of bones cracking
Another cry I always told myself not to be let out
The sound of eyeballs falling to a spring
I kept repeating your recorded voice
Breathing to it over, over, all over again
Couldn't smell your soul
Couldn't feel the warmth of your breath
I accidentaly broke my chest, ripped my heart,
Accidentally casted the darkness away
Couldn't find you
Couldn't see you
How was your voice again?
It was a dusty bluish green
A moss-covered 2 p.m. bright sky
Do you ever see our star?
It's called "sun"
The one that casts you away from your mind
But not mine
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
I started writing poetries
But all I could read from it was
The sound of bones cracking
Another cry I always told myself not to be let out
The sound of eyeballs falling to a spring
I kept repeating your recorded voice
Breathing to it over, over, all over again
Couldn't smell your soul
Couldn't feel the warmth of your breath
I accidentaly broke my chest, ripped my heart,
Accidentally casted the darkness away
Couldn't find you
Couldn't see you
How was your voice again?
It was a dusty bluish green
A moss-covered 2 p.m. bright sky
Do you ever see our star?
It's called "sun"
The one that casts you away from your mind
But not mine
How is it possible to call something so simple, or anything, love?
"It's not," I remember well you replied quitely in a nightmare I didn't mind having.