Dec 2016
The white outside is screaming in my skull
and I'm begging for the whispers of dark to regain their hold,
The blue on the mountain speaks to the gold of the
once living grass poking through snow
The red of my nose is burning like ice and its laugh is too jolly
to the green of my eyes, who beg only to be closed.
and I'm begging for the whispers of dark to regain their hold,
The blue on the mountain speaks to the gold of the
once living grass poking through snow
The red of my nose is burning like ice and its laugh is too jolly
to the green of my eyes, who beg only to be closed.
I love living in the mountains but the snow is too bright when I'm in such a dismal mood. At least the mountains obliged and took on an awfully angry blue.
