Here’s to holding on to the hopes and here's to the dust gathering on our hopes. Here's to every tear that escaped our eyes and the tears that dried inside our eyes. Here's to the shattered glasses. Here's to the frayed threads. Here’s to the loss, the helplessness, the muted shouts, and inaudible screams. Here’s to seeing so much and nothing. Here’s to the numbness. Here’s to cluelessness.
Here’s to every tree that’s been cut down and every flower that's been plucked. Here’s to the starless nights. Here’s to the time when the moon couldn’t shine. Here’s to all the sunsets that I couldn’t watch. Here's to stealing the right to live.
My spirit turned a hundred years old last year. An old withering flower has adorned the corpse of my young soul. Each tick of this clock sounds tired, just like my heartbeat. The air I breathe in is stale and the scars are old from the wounds that I've dragged along with me over the years.
What's new in 2015?
Even my thoughts are corroded.
Here's to new numbers.