Maybe it's that smell
Of dust settled on it well.
Maybe it's the realistic imagination
Which calls you to elope away from realization.
Maybe it is home calling out to you,
Telling you that times await to wipe out the blue.
Or Maybe it is the earnest yearning,
To feel the fuzz of human warmth softly glowing.
I have tumbled over rocks and pebbles
And tonight I sit here, in a crumble.
A roller coaster of a process,
squeezing out my emotional mess.
But all this rowing through
Will eventually lead me back anew.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 11:48 PM UTC
Maybe it's that smell
Of dust settled on it well.
Maybe it's the realistic imagination
Which calls you to elope away from realization.
Maybe it is home calling out to you,
Telling you that times await to wipe out the blue.
Or Maybe it is the earnest yearning,
To feel the fuzz of human warmth softly glowing.
I have tumbled over rocks and pebbles
And tonight I sit here, in a crumble.
A roller coaster of a process,
squeezing out my emotional mess.
But all this rowing through
Will eventually lead me back anew.
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