Dreams are strange, I tell myself. That they're full of imagined beings and impossible scenarios. That they're tales of lies and whispers in the dark. But it never works. I know that whatever happens there, happens here. For me, at least. There's never a moment of silence, a moment of clarity, because all I see is what has been and what could've been. The voices screech in my head, echoing in the visions. It hurts, slowly and slowly breaking down the barriers I had risked my sanity to build. But then again, what's the point of being a prophetess when you can't prevent the apocalypse?
YOU ARE READING
Mmhmm I'm Bored
PoetryThose little things that pop into your head that you can't help but write down. I suppose it could be counted as freeform poetry-ish. Cover by the exalted @FableWrites.
