Sunday, March 6, 2016


Occasionally, the things you've buried unearth themselves; like ghoulish things they haunt the recesses of your mind. . . occupy your very soul. So much so that you become blind to reality and find yourself in a space of pure sentiment—sacred, scarred and scared.

I admit this for I know the time will come when all I have to keep this ancient ache at bay, is my own resilient soul.

Not to worry though, I have learned to not constantly dwell on things. I have my poetry, I have my heart, together they keep me alive.

What is a journey without experiences? Even if it was but a mirage; to it, nothing compares.

No comments:

Post a Comment