He was once the center of my poetry and every words describe him incredibly.
I wonder what had happened that my style change dramatically.
It was like yesterday.
Whenever I hold a pen my mind starts to work monstrously and I need to keep up for its pace is hideously scary.
How cunningly foxy he got me so work out, out of pity.
He knows my days are broken and all he did was to say sorry.
Tch. Maybe this is just how it is. Him being happy and me being stupidly sloppy.