Those moments I spent writing,
On any Sunday afternoon,
I regret I cannot take back.
Even though, every Sunday looks beautiful,
I do not dare to come out.
Because if I do, I wonder if my mother will be alright.
So, for something to do,
I kill time with words.
Wondering if anything will come out of it,
I continue the quest for literary genius.
With another poem about loving someone
That doesn’t exist,
Or exist, but impossible to reach.
Maybe, they will see my talent,
And call me and help me get out of this place.
For thre moment, I thought I had it
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