What we define as lurid
is a child's favorite color
What we see as intrinsic
is a child's say of boredom
What we do with impetuosity
is a child's way of interpreting an adult
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Little did we know as a child
things were far from what they seemed.
-
Our tangled mess of words,
Our little feet, our tiny fingers,
Our beating hearts of innocence,
Our fire-filled curiosity.
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O little child, you are beyond what you seem
You are a flame amidst impeccability
You differ like a hurricane
You're the storm through the pouring rain
You are you, little child
And don't you ever change.
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A/N: please listen to ODESZA's instrumental version of Memories That You Call while reading this poem. It makes it all the more diverse and enigmatic along with the beats, I assure you.
YOU ARE READING
Blaze
PoetryA collection of songs intertwined in her head that she weaves into a web of intellectual words and let's them flow free in the form of poetry. **actually really cringey poetry that I wrote in the span of a year when I was 14**
