Just another beautifully broken memory to write about.
And Poetry is no exception
“when so many are lonely… it would be inexcusably selfish to be lonely alone.”
and I’ll find you on a hill playing the harp. and I’ll beg you to sing for me
She waded in with the waves at her knees
But now she,
Is a thousand lies deep.
Perhaps you have convinced everyone else, but are yet to convince yourself.
“I wrote this a while ago… and the truth is we are nearly at 24.”
So that I can soon honour me
And all that I have become
And all that I am soon to be.
And no matter how much you want to escape them
You will never escape yourself.