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we, with our lion hearts scorching with thunders and atoms that burn brighter than the wildflower sun are only expected to follow the norms and praise mortals with certain standards. but how do you call it when honeysuckle comes to breathe mama cloud?
their tips touch to taste our solid bravery with our souls not wanting to clash and vaporize their essence but to bring hope and ignite the embers praying that we realize we're museums, we have so much art stored in our cathedral bodies but no one must worship us
we try so hard for people to love our polaroid selves. we look for approval and acceptance so much you never knew how lovely you are. the Creator crafted you passionately not of fine silks and stars but with imperfections and scars.
