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i thought the first page of this new story would've been different but it wasnt
i thought an addict could stop smoking after a year but he cant
even if he wills himself to leave that cigarette on the table somehow it finds its way in between his teeth
actions speak louder than words but words speak louder to the conscience
but the voice that speaks words to myself is becoming more weary by the night
i thought the first page of my new story was going to be less torn but it wasnt
the corners are folded and wrinkled
but ive realized that worn pages are loved.
and that these pages have been read over and over again
and maybe hard times and trials are better stories to tell than the fairytales.
