Loving MemoryI rageweep at these fucking iron hooks piercing my torn, bloody heart and dragging it into the filth. Tell me this, oh Wise One – what’s the point of love when people just rip your optimistic little soul into shreds? What’s the point of decades spent on the snowfrozen outside of experience, smearing your pathetic tears across the ice-laced windows of the laughter and warmth of others? What’s the point of daubing on that ludicrous smile and fool-dancing in the pitiful hope that you’ll be liked? What’s the point of putting one foot in front of the other?

What’s the fucking point of anything?


About wombat37

A Yorkshireman in the green hills of Lancashire, UK Not a real wombat, obviously, or typing would become an issue. I do have short legs and a hairy nose, however. Oh, & a distinctive smell.

Posted on November 8, 2014, in fiction, Weird, Weird mood, Witter, Writings. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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