Sometimes I wish I could lean teetering,
Out of a window,
Pressing against crimson tulips,
Someone planted in the wooden box last winter.
My gold hair whips to and fro,
as if trying to get free and fly away,
to an unrealistic world.
Feeling the wind take my secrets
and sweep them away,
Letting the sky hear my dreams
and whisper them
to a bustling crowd of lightning bugs below.
Watching the silver rain run down my face,
drenching the tulips,
and with each drop that lands,
I allow a worry to slip away.
YOU ARE READING
Whimsical Nights
PoetryThis is the introduction to the series of poems 'Whimsical Nights'. This is my current project, and I will be adding to it periodically. When I first thought of this new series, I realized I needed a name. Oftentimes, names can be the difference bet...
