i can't stop thinking of your hands. everything is spilling through the cracks of my fingers like hourglass sand. i can't take control of anything, it's no wonder i've always hated driving. the words on the page are starting to blur and i can't seem to get my eyes to focus because all they can see is your name. this year in psychology i learned that we choose what we want to listen to, that we shut out everything that doesn't seem important to us and it makes sense now that i don't hear anything unless it rhymes with your name.
She was the unfinished puzzle She was the guitar with broken strings She was the meadow stripped of green She was the crooked table of support She was the inner voice of reason
She was the dream forgotten leaving a shadow of frustration She was the rush of a fresh storm promising heavy rain She was the ever-changing bricks in a decaying building She was the wrecking ball extinguishing it from existence
She was the heaven-sent false prophet She was the flower ripped from its stem She was the blank pages of a neglected book She was the dust covering all abandoned objects She was the frustration in desire
She was the locked door She was the vacant room She was the thought with no voice She was not love
Metaphors are the closest we can get to putting our feelings into words that people can understand. Everyone perceives things differently as they're judged against their own personal experiences.