i'm not sure what to think anymore,

living in front of this facade she calls

Herself.

with heavy eyes, the stares speak

a desolate song of disorder.

wafting everywhere in endless nights,

an incessant tear falls

into her abyss of discontent.

and she's queen of her own toxic

waste dump

when she's perched upon

her throne of unhappiness (a monarch of melancholy).

a gradual farewell I bid to the frontal turmoil

presented to me,

while mental au revoirs whispered under the grey

ask me questions of existence.

Samara Gomez