“Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing & love me for my writing." ― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Sadturday
I'm pretending to smile, I'm pretending to laugh.
I hold my tears, then my heart beats faster.
I can't even breathe
I feel alone in the crowd.
I feel cold tonight.
I got no one to talk to,
I got no one to share,
'cause I can't even find a way to start.
I see a movement of explosion.
Yes, I see a massive explosion gonna be.
I'm gonna explode. And it's massive.
The most fragile part of mine is completely broken, tonight.
Some people are still in war, someone lied to me.
Now that fragile thing turns into dust.
How can you fix it?
Anybody can fix it?
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