Why are my words ramblings, And yours art. Are they not built from the same bone? Are we not burdened by the same pen? Why are your words poetry And mine just words.
My living room is filled with a yawn. Big and enveloping quiet spreads itself over everything. And here I lay. Dark blue hues absorbing into the tile. The day is slowly melting into night. But each velvety second is tasted. As the light wills itself dim. So here I lay. Drifting in the crossbeams of […]