You left in June. As I sat at the windowpane I made my fingertips run after the raindrops on the glass. But they ran faster. (Full poem in the caption)
A blank sheet is like a voiceless tape where I want to put some songs- happy or sad, it doesn't matter. It just has to keep singing, until all the words from my lungs have died out.
In the game that your mind plays of feeling too much and feeling none, my heart looks out from the dark corner in hope. ... Another tale of despair told. And the one to be blamed? Never you.
... And she turns numb every time she sees clothes torn apart to shreds under street lights by demons under human masks digging into human flesh. (Read the full poem in the caption)