me, the mirror and my goddam boobs

In the war against self, angst and joy make the most noise… Increasing the burden on the soul to pretend to find the spiritedness of its once youthful exuberance… Shoooo even the sound of that sentence makes my mind exhausted

So I flip the page, hoping to find a new chapter… A corner of the mind that hasn’t yet been polluted with the dejectedness of being grown…

In between the rubble sprigs of hope sprout shoots… Growing small eyes with a skewed view of the pavement. In the end all that’s left is me, the mirror and my goddam boobs

Leading me to my favourite street. With its welcoming avenue…

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