I aspired to be a journalist when I was hardly 14 years
old...now at 23 I understand that there is nothing called
Journalism...there is idealism and reality. The next
aspiration borders on fiction.
Everyday I come home I forget your absence I open the door To an empty shell Which reminds me of Your presence There are no hugs And deep sighs The couch is cold Without you on it Smiling your Come…
