Cunt, criticism and being twenty fucking four

Well, it feels a lot like absurdity, strange, standing, frail looking trunks abutting a smoke-choked-concrete-traffic road. 

I wonder being the lost baby jackal of a lactating mother howling to death and the grief still doesn't end here.

Atleast the ominosity of it does not. 

Revenge is far from being the reality of a rage dream.

As the years pass by, am thinking more & more of putting the right food on the table for two.

I wake up so damn early to check on you.

After a large sip of water down the throat,

It's funny, I find, you are not gone yet.