It’s all good,
you know,
because I have learned to live with a bed of knives,
that I fall onto,
every night,
when you conclude that my time in the clouds is done.
I’ve started to say,
every time you say nothing at all,
that I’m just going through phases,
and stages,
on the road to being okay,
with whatever happens.
Swinging in the park,
grass swaying in the distance,
as the sirens of my latest home ring out,
because I am not content,
until I am toiling and troubled,
so,
of course,
I return to the same places,
avoiding how my face glows,
when I think of you.
RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
In The Garden Of The Free Children
Virgin Vogue
Sad Girl’s Love Song
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