Tonight I peel off layers of secrets buried deep
And the hurt overflows from the lesions
As I rub salt on them.

The ink from my old wounds spill onto these pages;
A relentless token of those tattered bandages.

It’s like walking on broken glass;
Only that agony could compare
To the yawning gashes that your words inflicted.



Time is but motion, age daily wasteth and zeal is only depressing.

These are the tales that the night time bares.

In other news, I will start a series today so.. Watch this space.


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