The world is grey
With patches of dark and light
It is woven of lies and half-truths;
Made of whispered knives and stabbing hurts;
Created from darkness and touched by faint light
The truth is buried deep
I have to find it
But when it whispers it's joys to me
I hear only lies
Because lies are all I know
YOU ARE READING
The Writers' Block Files
Non-FictionRambles bc I'd rather write random drabbles than anything actually productive. What is love? Is it joy, so bright and brilliant one thinks it can never end? Is it the sunrise blazing across the city in the morning, the cheerful birdsong that wakes...
