For I have nowhere to hang them. White walls I prefer to leave blank. Void of any depiction of far away lands that I may or may not get to see. When I hang a picture I can’t help but hang my hopes up with it. They always end up slightly crooked, but strung too high for me to reach out and fix. Then they sit and stare at me. And I start to yearn for them to swallow me up. But they don’t. They can’t. Because they’re just paintings. Nothing real. And I'm always left feeling so achingly disappointed.
So please don’t paint me promises I prefer to keep my walls blank.