time and time again my head reaches for the kindness of
but what’s the use of sleeping when there’s nothing to
wake up for.
instead of my head, the prints of fists are cast in this
the last tangible residue of the loss of self control.
while i hate to be affected it’s hard to admit it doesn’t
leave me untouched after all.
in the midst of the essence i flee, sacrifice the true
intention to save a fearless moment.
how clear doe you want it?
the compulsive waste of talents, safely tucked away
but who am i to fool myself?
i’ve wasted more than i deserved.