Oluwadamms
I write unto thee. It seem too personal giving an account of who I am. Who I have been, my yesterday and yesteryears — they don't just go away. Who am I?
It journeys from my mind to yours, and like a train or bus, there's no stopping a train of thought. In a little while, it is encrypted in my life's bus-stop. Blurry but obvious. I'm trying to say that I'm not one same being, but a collection of offsprings. Like my seemingly all encompassing world is nothing but a combination of expectations, experiences and reality. Or who I have been ? Who life h
Been a minute
To think I carved out a poem for us.
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