To be me.

For all the desperate hankering unobeyed by distrust.

A little louder.

How to grow out of the rage that waters your existence

The world is too beautiful for me to hate.

Year-end season.

How tongue hoard houses inside my throat made me sing.

What was stored in my head all night long

I wrote this when I was 15 years old.

My eyes are glued on him, among the dreams moving slowly far away amidst the isolated space. Breezes fly playfully on the water surface that is glistening with the melting piece of moon, on the shadow

To breathe through words.

Cathartic.