I found myself existing on the rim of hourglass just touching the time with crawling baby steps I couldn't refuse to look down at memories burning my shelter for the time being I slept on the edge, slitting my metaphors into the inn of backspaced nightmares. (Read Caption) What is the proof of living? Being surrounded by people no matter dead or alive I guess we all are dead poetries trying to fit in someone's verses and calling it an alive poem. No matter how hard I tried to become someone's metaphor
