When she left for college she called me at night. In the dark I lay there, listening to her regale me with stories of peace festivals and psychedelics and free thinking and independence and music; absently touching my face to reassure myself I was still a living, breathing animal despite the lack of living I was currently doing. She spoke of trees and hills and fog, and the ruby words rolled across her tongue and fell off her lips and straight through my ears into my heart, burrowing deep inside; making me wish they ran deeper.
I felt something, but it was not enough. My heart was broken, but it was not enough.
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because poetry's just another way to confess
so, this is it:
- viktorria
- I've just realized that I can't write to please everyone, only myself. Thank you, Mr Bradbury.
These poems are my own
and unless otherwise noted, are a reflection and extension of myself, and myself only.
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