There were days when the sun does not feel right, or the nights are too animated to be excited about. There were moments when being alive is only half the dish that were served right. These were the dog days. The days of having your eyes wide shut. Creeping feelings are never bashful, always at the door, looming larger then the ray of hope they block. Ah, the never ending cycle of the remorseful poet.
Sometimes, you grin in disbelief at what is in front of you: another scripted day of familiar hours, boring minutes, killing seconds.
I wanted to write a book but struggled at its content. I could spurt out hundreds or thousands of empty words, in the end, it'll only serve my unforgiving boredom.
What to Write.
What to Think.
What to....
Well. Just give up already
