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Al Jul 2015
the sky in the morning
(early, early, a bit too late)
is pitch black,
a glistening scene—
obsidian and morose—
like an ink stain
on your best dress shirt;
it glimmers,
coyly breathing,
drifting, pulling,
gravity on the mind,
yanking the words
from your brain
like a crow picking
at its dinner,
like an artist
ready to melt
all over a blank canvas,
like a paradoxical thief
robbing you of your
worries and sleep.
there is sleep and then there is writing; my muse sees no distinction
Lara Wan Aug 2014
we're dead, we're dead
we're walking, talking, breathing
but we're dead
we're dead, we're dead
we're barely eating, barely sleeping
because we're dead
for other parts of the world, school has just started (or is about to begin). bu here in my country, we're being murdered by our exams. cheers :)

— The End —