My thoughts rattle in my brain, and thick knots tie around my eyes and my skin making breathing harder (like a speeded bullet)
So what if I’m a child whispering in the dark and reading aloud, till the endings rhyme…like a child under a kaleidoscope. You said dreamers lie and so you must never have seen a sunrise, my friend. I’m not the branded deceit, fumbling in a misguided ecstasy of winter gold and night-time teas, to hear screaming and laughter made by whom?
Who varnished this day-dream under the yellow-paged moon, and brought wordless nights of heated nothings? Fickle hearts can’t be alone and a lie is not a bad word when it comes from a stranger. Now it just makes me laugh to think of it… all those wasted teas
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