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by hypogy Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E · Poetry · Other · #1382083
How everyone's got a bag of regrets they carry around and how it clouds everything.
brick walls,
microwaves,
cell phones,
everyone's got this junk
shoved into their beds,
and we all just live,
among the muck,
living amuck,
and now we've seemed
to have run off with all the hope we had left.
to concieve, or believe,
which is the true sin, here?
I can't find you, and
I can't find the door,
and I'm losing track of my priorities.
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