Letter to my Few Readers

I have reduced myself to writing about false illusions and stolen feelings, because the truth is, I have nothing to write about but fabricated situations that my subconscious puts together everyday. I must reduce myself to such a task because no one will read or listen to words that don’t speak love, or hope, or loss of the two. So forgive me that these words seem empty, they just reflect what is in me right now, and that’s well, emptiness. Because my heart is just beating because it has to, not because it’s running on hormone driven lust, it’s just pacing itself, not even waiting for the next run. Laying down and being lazy, just as lazy as my head when it comes to finding words to describe this feeling of nothing. But, this “nothing” is not one of being depressed, it is not of being broken, I’ve just forgotten what it’s like to be in love.

A poet with no love is just an idiot trying to put together the truly incoherent. Because it’s harder to write about the simplicity of being content, than the tragedy of being in love.

So again, I apologize for the lack of posts and the lack of meaning. Bear with me until summer.

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