The spring is playing with us: every blooming tree covered with a layer of snow… I am wri
The spring is playing with us: every blooming tree covered with a layer of snow… I am writing out the gloomy mood.A stillborn sonnetThe sheets hold meIn their womb.I don’t want to be born yetInto this day, This morningOf guilt and regret.The grievancesAnd tendernessOf yesternightAll turned to headache,Heartache, mental filth.As hopes come to a haltI wonderWho was really at fault. -- source link
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