You were a drug to me, babe. You weren't the medicinal kind either. You weren't just a painkiller. You weren't an antidepressant. You weren't a Xanax. You weren't ******. You weren't even the good kind of drug.
You weren't ****** or **** or ecstasy. You were the kind of drug that messed around with my heart and left my brain feeling clouded. You were the kind of drug that left me confused and feeling worse than before I took you. But I did. Again and again. I told myself I would break this vicious cycle of unscrewing your cap and hating myself for it afterwards. That I wouldn't draw back the plunger and force you into my veins anymore. But I didn't. Again and again.
I told myself you would be the death of me.
Every high you gave me left me feeling lost in the clouds.
grey misty haze why pray for better days? silver hues lick moist air in the beautiful world we share puddles painted on the floor revealing your unfocused stare grey misty haze tickling noses blue should be enough for you
why do people not appreciate grey days? do these days not accentuate the vibrancy of the rest, whilst being intriguing and softly beautiful in their own right?
Even on cloudy days, she is beautiful. Full of life and color Always moving forward, Never letting anything get in her way. She is more beautiful on the bad days. When the sky is dark and looming, She can still bring light and life. She can make you feel safe. With her songs in the trees, in the water, and in the wind that brushes against your cheeks
converging clouds create a celestial ceiling a disappearing of the sun's rays an ominous feeling of the revealing of the truth: the world's been packed into an intergalactic burlap sack, taken— and we are not coming back world-napped— never to be awakened. kiss us, but the prince is not handsome, we are alone, so no one will pay our ransom.