It's
fascinating how
at night, the moment my eyes
filter out reality, my blanket transforms
into a shield,
warding off all the spears that life hurls
towards me, only to shatter like
glass in the light of
tomorrow.
Sometimes my poetry tingles have weird, weird timings. This thought decided to flutter into my insomniac brain while I lay under my poofy blanket and worried about ghosts and monsters under my bed.
