What are the odds of being found sitting by a bench in the middle of a cold rainy night?
How many whispers to the stark night will it take or pleads to silent screams that echo in my head, till I find peace that I yearn, the love I thirst or dare I say it, the one, my complement?
I fear the cycle is non ending but only to repeat again and again…over and over till madness sets in where I will no longer know of hope; lamant setting in, each passing year the life inside dissipating never to remember what once was of me.
This existence is no fairytale yet villains are present, grief is my shadow, you breath but heartache, and asks to sacrifice all of you; and so your happy ending will always be just out of grasp.
Never to taste the sweetness that taunts you, haunts your deepest desires, to only leave you dry, rotted to your core…ahh the taste of bitter Why.