Photo by Eric Lagergren on Unsplash
I have been told the grass grows greenest where you water it,
Good advice, I’m sure, for the droughtless,
For those not living between pallid sheets,
Asking a rusted, riddled brain politely to let them out from
Six blankets under, from a world of warm white nothing,
But that my tale is spun from threads themselves unique
Is a lie, a con conducted by a mind accustomed to dull yellow walls:
For my particularity is a product of every red skyed morning,
Every tear wiped away, every hand held in mine,
Nudging me to walk where the blue rain pours
And pours,
And pours,
And pours,
The grass grows up to my eyebrows,
And there is nothing to see but
Green.
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About the Creator
Caitlin Thomson
Student writing for fun, hoping to be an author one day!
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