I hear voices—more distinct this time
And I'm trying to convince myself
They're all mine.
What would it mean
To feed myself nightmare stories?
To be the wolf that howls
At wide-eyed moons?
To harbour demons inside me
And live with the knowledge
That none hide inside you?
YOU ARE READING
Cityscape
PoetryA collection of poems written in the city. Written for city folk who don't quite belong. And for everyone else who fall in between the cracks of 'here' and 'there.'
