Last June


Hearing stories of misery from other people like me

Stuck in a loop of a memory frame, longing for things that they’re never going to get back

They tell me tales of sorrow, my heart cries for them and it cries for me

I see the world for what it is, a sorrowful place with pockets of happiness

I am afraid I may have used up all my pockets, and now I am in a cloud of misery

Listening to people in their clouds, hoping you could make it better

Hoping, that time would turn back and I could fix what I did wrong

Writing has lost its flavour, I do not feel it in me that a piece is good

I have lost the sense of contentment I used to find in words

Maybe I changed last June, maybe I broke.

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