There are times in this long seeming life of mine, that I wake up to a sky that is bruised black and blue. The streetlamps are off, and it's usually in June or July that I can hear what pure nothing sounds like--This vast, amniotic stretch of tranquil yet somehow unsettling silence that seems to bounce off of these four walls of mine into the rest of space and time.
There are no birds to wake me from a somewhat uneventful night of forgotten dreams, no rain pounding on the roof tiles. Just me, myself and I, a bundle of useless musings, and, oh, yes. The thought of you, constantly, constantly I tell you, pounding on the roof of my head and giving me explanations for my repetitive insomnia, keeping me awake longer than even the strongest brew of caffinated coffee.
-I was supposed to finish writing something here, but I lost it in the process of writing it and ended up with that. Note to self: Always remember to write down genius ideas. Also, use a thesarus because it sounds so much better when you do.
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F L O R A L S
Poetry'do you suppose she's a wildflower?' // a collection of scream, free verse and generally loud poetry from a quiet girl.
