We want it so much that we succumb to the illusion. Talking circles with a distinct sort of nausea. Flagrant on our own accord so don't believe every thought you think, fool.
I am tired / of being tired / don't mistake my / helplessness for laziness / if i could do something / I bloody well would
I am not such an interesting creature. I talk about moss, I dream of fog. I am a prawn head on crustacean shoulders.
Our bare walls are created upon against their will, sculptural relics to activity all of which is good even when bad.
"It's a special kind of hell my dear, i wish you never feel / But if you do, know that you can and will heal"
A poem by Nikita Tilak
A poem by Georgie Hurst.
A poem by Nikita Singh
You were something once.