it’s not until you

it's like my soul is in a constant state of hibernation and when it wakens up winter tries to make my mind his realm; guests come along and place bouquets of hope, florals of ambition and make space for blossoms of love and care to flourish. then autumn fancies playing his hand and starves the …

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it hits home when you run out of words  to mirror the whirlpool  contained within your mind;  it kinda feels hollow because you're so used to  emptying your soul  through twenty six letters  stringed so asthetically together  that it doesn't begin to paint  an accurate picture of our turmoils oh it's an ebbing wave  when …