Breaking a Promise (My Favorite Flowers: 2)
In a garden somewhere, not quite here and not quite anywhere, there is a boy who has cried his eyes away.
In a garden somewhere, not quite here and not quite anywhere, there is a boy who has cried his eyes away.
In a garden somewhere, not quite here and not quite anywhere, there’s a boy who is afraid of eyes.
The Nail Ward, as they called it, was as miserable as it looked from the outside. The thousands of needles covering the floor and walls made it impossible to relax, and sleep was terribly out of the question.
So Kerrick stood in the corner waiting, patiently, for the sunrise.
I’ve been trying to write this poem for a few days now, which was supposed to be an entirely different poem. It’s something I’ve been sitting on the last little while that’s been bothering me. We’re constantly pressed and/or expected to present our lives in a certain way online, even
“After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one’s own relations.”
“Youth is happy because it has the capacity to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.”