Lost in Crazy..

Let him be. Let him go on. He'll grow back ever too beautifully, forgetting the hard bitter amber, that grew out of the barks of his trees. And his two little bright stars glittering under the rain, will shine again shortly under a less jaded sun. Trees dream of a different soil, but will die taken out of their own.

I used to write. I used to write a lot when experiences were novel, when emotions were raw and original. But in a life where everything is tainted by a curse of perpetual returns and same old frustration feelings become rather banal, and too bare to be written.

It doesn't matter if you were the one that left, because they've left a hollowness inside. It doesn't matter really, because you've always been too apprehensive to admit to that wretched perforated little organ you call a heart.