footsteps patter on the linoleum,
echoes which are quite loathsome
to mothers.
the light flickers yellow,
a house sculpted by Donatello
that lacks the warmth of his work.
chimney...
Every second, minute, hour, day,
Passes by without a second thought
Never regarded until it’s too late
Until youth has slipped away,
And all that remain
Are memories.
Looking...
These past few months, I’ve been impatiently counting down the days I have left in this school. With each passing day, I grow more tired of the monotonous drone of classes;...