existence.

"Sad stuff makes beautiful poetry, but it's not so pretty to live with." [-Merecat]
*For the Dear Diary Competition*
(I recommend anything beyond 'Tumbling Ash' for the rest is a mess of nonsense words that hold no character, no story and absently fill the page)

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9. Sown Wings

 

I feel rather

peculiar.

 

Like I'm flying,

but falling.

 

Like my wings are broken,

but they're sown.

 

Like a pink sweet wrapper

and the stalk of a spiced pepper.

 

I just want to

collapse into a fit of giggles,

but sit solemnly with my lips in a stick line.

 

It's been a while

since I have felt this obscure

emotion.

 

Has it been too long?

Or is it too soon?

Only sleep can answer

that.

 

-Sunday 31st May
 

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