These rainy days often entice furlong thoughts of possibilities. Pen drips with envy, bruised and battered the notepad explaining everything within me. So sad, maybe melancholy when I was younger provoked the folly.
So I dreamt of better when opportunity knocked and she ain't left since, but depression keeps calling and I love her accent. I find myself smearing chapstick on unwritten lines, praying my cold heart doesn't cause the ink in my pen to dry. What lies meant meaning to honesty? I mean, I'm just trying to be the man I ought to be.
©blkhesiod
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