Writing

Chapter 4

Chapter 3

Perhaps Autumn is the season of figments. When what’s real is hidden behind mountains of fog. It is a time when what isn’t dances perilously close to what is. The same way the burning leaves that fall, perform their final reel with the wind.

Headphones on, life off.

Turn up the sound 

to drown out

the deluge of my worries,

let the rhythm burn

my ears, ignore

the sting, because my

cheap blue headphones 

bring me

this happens too often:

attachment to that one friend;

a text—a hey—oh look,

i'm crying again.

you read it but you don't respond,

you play your games instead;

A site I was hesitant to join at first,
A place where people share their opinions, emotions,
And little pieces of their mind.