A Dream in Black White


If you've ever woken up inside a dream, you already know why I write.

If you've ever screamed "feel-words" at the clouds which lie low, you already know why I write

If you've ever sang your lungs out because you thought no one was listening, you know why I write

My mind love the idea of romanticism

Creating something out of nothing

To lay like a beached whale in the grass, looking forward, imagining you're very small, almost meaningless

But so very meaningful because who knows of the small girl who lives in the grass

The girl who walks by the shoulders of beatles and rides on the backs of shrews

I write because I read, the pages of black and white

Crisp and picturless

I imagine I am the heroine, the temptress, the assassin, the wicken

I can do limitless things at the end of a lead pencil or ball point pen

I can ignite the imagination of the sheltered, the boarded, the chained and hoarded

We live within the Ideas of the writer

I am the writer and I live in the ideas of the read.


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