My words are colorless you don't see strong first reds or deep blues reminiscent of the deep seas.
My words linger alone just lines on a page.
Sound vibrating in the air.
My words don't have their own show and you cannot buy them.
My words are like dreams never realized.
My words I left to rot, and to linger in the dark leaving an odor of the past in the air.
My reason is my own words feel like I'm spitting venom. A venom that just comes back to me and attacks.
Yet I relish in my own suffering.
