i don't remember most of my days;
time flows right past me —
it's like everyone is moving,
and moving on fast;
but grief, my grief
nails me down as they pass;
watching it all slowly;
watching them live their
lives before me –
watching my life
move,
(move!
move!)
without
me

and so here's an ode
to all stories –
to the old, the new,
and the yet to be written.

your love bled
just like the pen did
everytime it tried
to fill in the empty pages;
and just like that
it ended just the same.
for all that was
left now were stories.
and only the stories remained.

i can hear them banging
inside my head,
perhaps this time
they intend to render me dead.

for i am but a mere collection of
cluttered thoughts personified.

sometimes in a day -
it's fun just to enjoy the simple things in life without seeing the gray areas that surrounds it.