Into
words into stars into another boring discussion on who
we are who we were who we long to be I am still in that treehouse still hiding in the leaves if
memory is my master then I am its beaten dog wouldn’t
I be clever it I could put it all together wouldn’t
I be the one calling the shots mock
me with riddles ridicule me with rhymes you know I have no power that
I am afraid to be alive
No comments:
Post a Comment