Meaningless.

Cutting off the world seemed much finer than cutting off from what seems the world to you.

Nights passed by, and I wished I wrote a single piece of poetry, just one word maybe to go on with.

Coil my paper in the tangles of black ink, dip my pen in the emotions so volatile or at least have the guts to look back at the episodes rewinding in my mind fetched from feelings left unspoken, unwritten.

On the contrary, I see people climb up the stepping stones and me? I throw those pebbles for the strides they make in the ocean of my repeated nightmares.

For once I wanted to make sense enough to write some thing anew. All I wrote is this unthinkable free flow of gushed waves hitting hard at the shore, meaningless.

I failed you words, but I can’t ask for forgiveness. I know I will do it more often.

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