I don't want magic
january is about to end and lots of things are coming, still attempting to tear up the fear I blanket around myself for another year. regardless what stains it got on itself, the red curtains are always down either in days or nights. it should be okay to be away from home sometimes, they say, so I put my dirty sneakers and headphones on when mom’s not around.
I head off to the town to at least grab something nice from the bookstore people often talk about. it’s still this early for someone to walk around the neighbourhood. even the truck hasn’t started collecting the garbage yet, and I wonder what I’ve thrown out yesterday.
it sucks to have these days crawl into my bed when morning finally comes. days like these where I have doubts and hesitancy of being myself again. or at least being somebody who can better herself by letting go of the guilts from the past. the devil might have danced mercilessly on my weakness.
could it be the past that I’m afraid of being chased after? could it be the things I couldn’t fix, which have come as a betrayal towards things I haven’t done? could it be that kind of love I’m having a delusional on? yet, it’s always myself whom I’m confronting the battle with.
it's crazy how something somehow tells me that I’m in despair—like how the grass dances with the mighty wind—following each step and whispers from people’s ultimate view. how poignant it has seemed to be, that I become the rider of major changes revolving around me.
so loud but so nothing.
whenever I reluctantly accept anything from my vantage point, it feels like I’m crushing the hopes in my hands, slowly throwing it to the ground where I have my feet to smudge it with. I pick up the flower aside the bushes; it's pretty. the green grass is no longer blooming.
uh... I would never let the grass grow under these feet for I’m the one who would be buried underneath.
I head off to the town to at least grab something nice from the bookstore people often talk about. it’s still this early for someone to walk around the neighbourhood. even the truck hasn’t started collecting the garbage yet, and I wonder what I’ve thrown out yesterday.
it sucks to have these days crawl into my bed when morning finally comes. days like these where I have doubts and hesitancy of being myself again. or at least being somebody who can better herself by letting go of the guilts from the past. the devil might have danced mercilessly on my weakness.
could it be the past that I’m afraid of being chased after? could it be the things I couldn’t fix, which have come as a betrayal towards things I haven’t done? could it be that kind of love I’m having a delusional on? yet, it’s always myself whom I’m confronting the battle with.
it's crazy how something somehow tells me that I’m in despair—like how the grass dances with the mighty wind—following each step and whispers from people’s ultimate view. how poignant it has seemed to be, that I become the rider of major changes revolving around me.
so loud but so nothing.
whenever I reluctantly accept anything from my vantage point, it feels like I’m crushing the hopes in my hands, slowly throwing it to the ground where I have my feet to smudge it with. I pick up the flower aside the bushes; it's pretty. the green grass is no longer blooming.
uh... I would never let the grass grow under these feet for I’m the one who would be buried underneath.