Y’all, I’ve been reading too much American poetry, so I’m going through this mixed phase of modernism and romanticism, I hope something good comes out of this because its certainly weird for me to write like this.
Disclaimer: bulletless doesn’t seem to be a real word, but I don’t get why, so I’m gonna use it anyway.
Disclaimer 2: I’ve since revised the second part of the poem, so if you’re reading for a second time, you may find it different than the original. If you seek the original, you can find it here.
A long abandoned composition, I’ve discovered it on my vaulted document. It describes a dream I had, but a few minutes after I woke up, I could no longer gather memories to continue the composition, so this is all I got…
A crucible of sincerity, vulnerability and late hours can create some of the most painful compositions.
Sorry about the small absence, had some days of portuguese production since I was getting severely behind.
To my dearest Yoshimatsu. He shall never read it, but I rest knowing that I’ve wrote it, and in that, birds are still…