i'm generally so drained the existence that is so deadened and in someway little
everything I do is dream and dream and dream
about ridiculous circumstances that won't ever occur
playing counterfeit situations in my mind
since my brain and my creative mind is the way get away from this reality
I was preferably dream over this since life is extremely Exhausting that I'm attempting to simply get away
here to me there is an entirely different world and I'm a person and I can handle my own predetermination
however, actually I need to work and work and work and I don't feel that is the thing that life is for
About the Creator
dana may
a poet and i do know it
A blue summer
“Ask me in December,” my darling whispers to me in bed. I'm cold, shivering under the blankets. Under the second part of our story with us possibly dead. “Why are you so cold? Come closer to my side,” Duck cries. I can't hear his crying nor can I see it in the dark. I feel the wetness of his face against my skin. It warms my heart like a heat lamp. I am sorry. So sorry. It kills me when I can't save you. You're my family, my true love, Darling. But I feel us disappearing after every death, every strike against us, like a cleaver or an ax against our handholding, severing our tight embrace with their judgment. Their indifference. We aren't the perfect definition for a family. “When can we move out of this place? We need to leave before they come to try and separate us again…” I tremble in his arms. Duck sighs, cheeks drying. “Ask me in December, Red.”
By Melissa Ingoldsby6 days ago in Poets
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Time itself bent and morphed, allowing Shannon the precious seconds needed to see and adjust to the disaster unfolding in front of her. Each frame showed minute details she would have missed had the clock not slowed down until she heard every click of the hands as they swept toward the end of everything. If only she was being melodramatic...
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