Fourth day of the week.
Two days to freedom.
Seven days of hell, of burning emptiness for me.
Why am I here? What am I doing?
Why?
Nothing is permanent
Stay positive
If only they could understand why so many of us die at 25 and aren't buried for another 50 years.
Sunny days no longer bring me warmth.
Only a painful, harsh reminder that...
Not all nights have a dawn.
YOU ARE READING
For The Brave, For The Bleeding
PoetryA collection of poems for the strong who are fighting, for those who have somebody to fight for, for those who still knows what it's like to love till you hurt all over... A set of original works from your pocket unicorn. Feel free to comment on his...
