I am the child with dirt-stained knees,
running through the forest green.
I am the child of hillsides wild,
of rivers deep and valleys mild.
I am the child with tangled hair,
woven through with flowers fair.
I am the child who howls at the moon,
and sings old tales by ancient rune.
I am the child who lies with the sun,
and through her love, with the world, I am one.
YOU ARE READING
Ghostwriter
PoetryLiving with mental illness can oftentimes trap one within the inner maze of their mind. In that place, dreams, fears, wishes, and regrets all compile together to create a new world far from the one we physically exist in. At times, it becomes easy t...
