Today after a long long time did I find the chance to get back to my roots and write and scribble. I sat here on my chair for hours staring into the empty space looking for a single word to write of my thoughts. This is what followed:
Cut open my veins and you'll find ink. Tear the pages on which I write and you'll find my blood.
Oh well, life can never be more clear after a few hours of loafing around. At least it's productive in some sense if not morbid once the realization hits of what I did to myself. But then again, I guess the whisky will be a lot more agreeable than my pen.
No comments:
Post a Comment