How many sad songs
Do angels have to listen to
To find their way back home?

7:41. Wednesday


Wasted Words

Soaked in water, drenched by the rain, wet and garbage; you are useless. Laid in here are the poems I’ve written when my days felt like everlasting nights. When cold hands tangled its finger on my throat, I wrote down every ache I felt. The teardrops I accepted as friends and forever stained on its pages. The stories it carried. The memories. My faults and flaws.My words written permanently by ink, now splatters of unknown letters like my greatest fear.

You were ruined in a peculiar way, and I found it strange as well. Simply not just by an accidental spill by my clumsy self. And yet, it is still my fault you are now broken and unreadable.