This guy got me thinking,
through delirium and despair
with sprinkles of madness over
a flesh with a weak heart sewed
over layers of hope.
the ones who write about uncertainty,
death and creating hope out of it are the real writers that made me feel something.
Dostoevsky was the zenith of it.
The Rest writers nowadays are selling themselves, mushrooming like burger joints, using layers of cheesy love and regret to get noticed.