#22

Fools will think they’ll speak and words will flow

For mine are tears and agony it stored

In the room of dim lights 

I find joy scattered staying alone.

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Just a tourist

I thought my early days were fawner

Hazed by forgotten and numbered days

I had one pen, one voice and different minds to keep up with

Yet I couldn’t keep up with my own.

It began in the brighter days

When my days weren’t bright at all

I saw lines as vividly as I can

And friends were none to keep.

I was just a tourist

Passing by their lives

Peeping through the lens

Of which I shouldn’t lie.

I made the art alive

Breath as fresh as it can ever be

Perhaps to be broken by someone

Younger after all.