That's the thing, you know.
We just couldn't hold our heart in out hands
without being afraid of dropping it.
We played with our homes like fiddlesticks
And beat ourselves up with them.
Did we even think about letting it go?
Letting go of our fears?
YOU ARE READING
Prismatic Memories
Poetry"i. they tell me they cannot comprehend art. where art is, whispers reside. ii. i tell them that the only art i need are the words that bleed onto paper. iii. they tell me it doesn't work that way. there are compromises for art. sports. scie...
