I do not write for the world But the world whispers to me A faint little murmur For it to be told and be free.

The color of the morning seemed the same dull grey. The air I breathed in felt the same, sour and stale. But as I yawned aloud like I do, no sound escaped my gaping mouth. I looked down to count my scars as I do every morning, for the past is where I always start. Read more…