The fault with seeing the world through rose-coloured glasses is that we do not know when to stop.
When the lights at the crossroads flicker red, all we see is light, not colour.
We run, we hide in nostalgia’s walls, playing with the toys we grew out of, talking to the skeletons in our closet.
“Life is so strange,” we say, as though we are no stranger ourselves.
Romanticise, don’t realise
love is like hate
passion like anger, anxiety
and blood, just another fluid
Roses, red all the same
Wine, flows through oesophagus like water flowing like tears of the child’s sighs at night yearning for a relief of the pain of a
strange life
being no stranger ourselves
seeing the world through rose-coloured glasses
not knowing when to stop.
