It’s not that I don’t have anything to say,
Maybe a little too much that it pains,
Every night I crawl between,
The two sheets that absorb my dream,
The screeches, the horrors, the thundering claps and dying slowly,
Little by little as my thoughts engulf me,
I walk every day with something on my mind,
But what is that something I ask myself many times,
Is it the fog of everything thought mixed,
Or the loss of curating a thought altogether,
Why are we still surviving,
When all I ever do is sulk at it and spend every day crying?















