see, i've been washing poetry away for so much time i can no longer tell when was the last time i held a pen to turn bad things into metaphors so that non of you would understand
see, i think no one's ever written about how writer's block can drive oneself insane, how similar it is to waking up one day and finding out that you don't feel the same way about someone you madly loved the night before things got complicated
see, when ideas flow you cannot stop them from coming and when they don't you can't evoke them
puking memories seem like the best way to keep people intrested in your writing but we're all aware that memory and oblivion are besties and we all are masters in the field of patching up the original memory so what we write is nothing but fakeness
see, my teacher said "whatever phenomenom you see in the sky probably happened a million light years before", so some of the stars we see are dead, so all of the wishes we made are stardust, not even, they didn't even reach the shooting star on time
maybe my poetry is just like that, you see, whatever i write happened so long ago, you can take it as a lie once true or as something that mattered so much and now it doesn't
