The days pass lost in the desk. Loneliness. Screaming inside. Containing all the dead dreams. Smiling falsely. Throwing away all the poems, all the words, all the little lights. Life is simple at the end. You born, you die.


The painfull thing is, something called emotions, feelings disguised as little knifes, cutting you, bleeding you out but not kill you. You love, you hate. Humanity is imperfect. I know it.