Everybody has gotten tired of me talking about childhood, how beautiful it is, how we never understand that it is over, and how I always tell stories from my childhood, the perfect childhood stories. How my dad taught me how to ride a bike, how I loved to go outside in our little garden right after it rained, search for ladybugs and then sit with them for hours talking and talking. At the same time watching the beautiful sunset that would fade from pink to purple, while my mom was cooking dinner in our white wood little kitchen which had hand-made chairs and two tables in it, how...
"but that's not your childhood right? Didn't your dad..."
"yeah I know"
That is what I would always say.
They weren't my childhood stories,
It was just me mourning for the childhood I never had.
YOU ARE READING
The lost art of Words.
Poetry"But none of these options were in my story, A story which dried up my heart from hope" What does it take to live with a vision full of words. what is it like to be knotted up in your own dreams? POETRY ALERT!!
