I must believe someone, of which I would not be happy once I learn he had, has read some of my shits on my notebook. Hopefully he has not since it would be horrifying for me to force my toes to move an inch just to face the known fact. Someone tears off a quarter of the paper, thus someone must have read the things before the torn paper. Eh, like they could ever figure who it is all about. I am Wednesday to them, and when you are called by such, nothing could really hurt you. Poofs.
Tortured to sing sappy songs, B+ for failure to deliver sarcasm to a lecturer and broken glasses to my every heart. Is 10' supposed to be a sequel to 09'?
.............................
Mending my love for broken vacant seats,
leaves me with only regrets.
Partial prints of your touch
are nothing more than paper cuts.
Fixing a smile is no longer
your skill for me to learn.
To long for you to receive
the voice within these walls.
...............................
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