I've been afraid of dying with unheard stories running rampant in my head and my lips a withered bloom, playing a garland to my death. I dip a pen in the murk stirring in my heart, barely alive.
I've been afraid of turning into a shadow like my past, with hope becoming an obscurity. Desperation turns into a forlorn sigh as the page breathes one last time.
I find myself fading into oblivion, like an overrated phrase blending into its meaning or a jar of sunsets turning into clichés. I end up narrating eulogies like lullabies, while the night begets chaos.