Bunnies are fluffy, hop with grace, and are always in survivor mode.
Writers make ink flow, like rivers carve the landscape to tell its story.
They said I’m emo. Uh, was their first clue my band called, Betty Stab Wound?!
I had a dream: it was green, then later blue, and one day it’ll be black.
A flower is so delicate and fragile with such a short lifespan.
I see you, I do. You’re heard and mean well, I’m sure, but the words are harsh.
With your head in the clouds, you’ll only see the fog and miss what is real.
My words are the leaves of winter: gone. Not seen or heard or read. I’m bare.