A writers story.
We, the writers,
The foolish, the blind
Cupping these vestiges of love
That they toss at us, carelessly,
Using its dregs to paint grey skies,
Losing sleep and staining pillows
Oh, are we not tired of it all?
And aren’t our lungs shaking,
With the unspoken misery?
As we lose our way again,
Writing our own story