I am no Van Gogh,
I'm not art
I am a story with no ending
no definite point where
everything finally went bad
I am but a lovecraftian tale,
full of bloody plotlines
like veins connecting to no frontal cortex
and bad final chapters
like the suppressed memories
and cut neuro-pathways
that make me forget what's real
and what's not
I am no Hemingway
or Fitzgerald,
but I know, somewhere, there is tragedy in the fallout
there is a storm coming ahead even in the bluest sky;
and I don't mind,
I hate blue skies
anyway
YOU ARE READING
Dropped Tea {poetry}
Puisijust a bunch of poetry of my own. spoiler alert: the cup of tea isn't half empty and it isn't half full. there is just no tea at all.
