We’re collectively committing love and suicide.
Our glass walls have crumbled and the shards
made their way through our skins,
landing in our hearts.
They hurt like a bitch with every breath.

A bad poem this never intended to be. But
it turned out to be filthy foul, full of
rejected words and forgotten

The whole world is a silent forest, and
we’re little travellers inside sad yellow tents
waiting for our turn. The escapes are
narrow and perilous.

I’m going to strikethrough this line.

Rewriting from the beginning, I arrived at the valleys of Mount Fuji. With samurai swords,
the monks of good faith were waiting.

I was to show them this poem, and they
would build a shrine of humanity.

When this poem turned into Aokigahara,
I never knew.


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