the wheat is strong, yet thin
its simplicity is admirable to me
or maybe from all these times
that i’ve spoken to myself
i have made it to be more beautiful than it truly is.
and the skies are light blue, plain
each day i have seen the same
and i still smile when i wake from bed
my gums drip blood on the shattered mirror
what is the difference between comfort and joy?
i never sow the fruits or pick the flowers,
its still beauty is alright enough from afar
and i’m content with stirring the marigold tea
but i can’t look into it for long, my thoughts return
i loathe how that dirty city beckons me.
there’s a cord, fragile and faint
it connects me to that treacherous place
and i too have fallen from that sparkling tower
the fall was blunt, and wings only sprouted thereafter;
silence is a quiet savior, too easy to control.
these sheets are warm
and i haven’t opened the shutters,
not for a year, not until i cease to exist
belonging to neither doesn’t make me cry or smile
and it hurts the most to tell you i’m scared.
(unfortunately, for some reason it won't space together.)