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Lost. Running through a city,
my thoughts and feelings the cars racing past,
Lost. Without you my dreams turn into nightmares,
Constantly running away from reality.
First, find out you have to get on this roller coaster,
You see the signs pointing toward the ride
You climb the stairs
Her hair floats delicately down her shouldersThe color of a waterfall as delicate as a brooke.Her eyes sparkling like fireflies dancing in a lush forest after the rain.Her skeletal hands take mine Razorblade bones so sharp they lookLike they’ll sl
“Ceci est la couleur de mes rêves”
Or,
“This is the color of my dreams.”
Joan Miró’s dreams were blue
In 1925
Blue, rich, encompassing
And beautiful.
And my dreams
In a world that cannot see me,
A place forming thick, straight, immalleable lines on a meaningless mission,
Refusing to deviate from their exhausting path.
A place that encourages me to conceal,
