TO FORGOTTEN BELOVED FRIEND OF MINE

Hello friend.
When I write, I want to talk.
No matter it’s been days or years.
Someday everyone happy is going to make fun of us.
I know as well but now, I am really confused.
I have grown older and you have become colder.
Love is a drug we’ll never miss.
We used to live our lives separated.
Without downs and ups.
We’re not looking at the mirror much.
Or to the people walking away the streets.
Sometimes, they gazing at us.
But I know, it is hard to trust eyes again.
Randomly in the streets.
Sometimes I feel like I am ending up,
passions.
So I write to myself sometimes.
To mollify that rage, anger and grief.
We grieved for our moods. But grieve is a robe,
chaining us to the world,
mundane world.
Doorway is tight,
and we’re initiating.
One is going to be two.
Two is going to be three.
From three,
Thousands and thousands.
As they grieve for death,
I grieve for the moments,
used to feel that again.
For gaining the top,
For killing the confidence,
Whom I was sceptered.
And you the wench,
poor and crying, pleading
and I gave it to you.
Then I end that era up.
Now,
We would drink sometimes,
We gave up alcohol and the drugs.
Cannabis, mushrooms, mescaline,
And also the drug,
Cocaine-like natural downs and ups,
We'll never miss:
or fall?

TO FORGOTTEN BELOVED FRIEND OF MINE