Writes

With dead fingers and empty words, he writes.

He writes only to forget the memories of the past.

But writing makes them perpetual.

Without death or end.

Then he smokes, he takes, he bleeds and he dies.

Die to forget.

Forget everything about him.

But he still sighs,

he still murmurs the memories that he does not forget,

that is his punishment.

And drunk, drugged, dead.

He still writes.

Write ink storms and bone pains.

Write because he wants his memories to torture another, that they belong to another.

He writes alone, abandoned and dead,

He writes for company.

T.A.