Psickological Warfare

  Those who have enjoyed life have never learned about it.

  Poetry   is   not   the   crying   out   of   a   soul   but   the   breath

  I don’t find much enthusiasm in anything anymore,   but every once in a while I still get a rush when taking my next breath.

  The deeper the mind resides, the shallower the world appears.

  Does ash carry memories?

  We lost the plot.   Now,   the plot is that we’re lost.

  A world of which we may or may not have consciously or unconsciously made before  our births petitions only for me to stay down or dead. Why?