As I am so little in front of books in a sanctuary state.
Levels, piles, shelves and overwhelming floods of books I can not read right after another.
These two little eyes makes up my input, as all the books combine I can not comprehend, understand nor what to do with all of it.
When does my time all go,
at the end will my mind be hypnotized;
as my brain fills with so much words that will be my glossary of my life.
Only a life to define all these be in majestic way for a path of belonging.
Here my pencil sings into the filled papers.
Hear the pen roar that makeup my line filled chapters drawn.
Second chapter right after 50,
I am filling my days in poetry.
About the Creator
Poetry is my past, the future rolls for no one. I'd rather have her exorcise my past and to entertain as life goes by in this chaotic world.
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