Blue,
Blue,
Blue.
Your dream catcher tinkles like
A star laughing.
Is this what you really want?
To be in a choir and not sing.
To be dead and pretend to live.
To be and to not be.
Your piano stills sounds like it
Used to; sad, soft, a collision of
Melodies that seem to emerge
From within its wood.
The ones who live for others
Are dangerous, because they
Create unrealistic expectations
For those who
Do not.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
