Puisi #5 Untitled (2)

By: Cockcaine

Sit still and crying,

about thing that keep coming,

silently and started killing.


The idea of you,

something that my hand can not approach,

ugh, why?

Is my hand too small?

Or your heart that too far?


The idea of you,

that keep me sane while insane,

that keep me fluent while blunt,

that makes me realize,


you’re just,

an idea.

Not real,

nor real.


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