Perhaps life outside the seascape of emotion
is worth trying to, just live & never expecting
high demand.
Perhaps life gets bitter when your
too alone for such a long time, it's like
You seek company but you never did.
Perhaps life outside writing are more
Challenging than the play of words,
Trying to dare the truth that never
Comes out.
Perhaps life gets busy on things that
didn't matter, you laze around and
listening to stories never your own.
Trying to pass time, like a passerby
Never staying, you just fade in the
background of things you wish
it's Yours...
Perhaps life outside my inspiration
I'm too forgiving, too passive, and
too sensitive that I never care for
Myself. I care too much on my own
Prison that I forgot to believe on myself.
I don't write like I used too,
because I care too less like
I used too...
i guess this is my life.
