a little lonely, because my soul is part of an 8-hour difference be associated with me. that's funny.
The tight vaults, made of threads crossed
your meat on the tires and what they leave behind
If we call waste of time.
pull your face not only dare wrinkles,
we see what we call the Travel and distorted
you snared you sometimes in your own traps, you
bites you just from your own arm or even your
last will.
By the deep mess you just stomp away and
If you stumble, you just spit on the blood.
It was not sealed, to be mourned,
that matters is the way and
which are not open gaping wounds
because over time, forgotten scars.
From the chaos of your self no one escapes,
we call childhood trauma, and your passage through
causes not only revolution, for the smooth your way,
the victory lost its shine and your path slowly towards .
Sincerely
wabu
