We write our stories on crinkled coffee shop napkins, with cheap jet black eyeliner. Rough at the edges, smudged lines; fairytales but with tragic endings and without sparkling bliss.
Rays of sun through glass windows compete with our clouded minds and rainy eyes. Sorrows braided into galaxies, puddles made into swimming pools.
We are just spilled paint in an art portfolio, the shards in a broken mirror.
where seasick birds
sail over seas without an end
and sun tickles my curiosity
where even rattling pebbles
dare to dream
about a boundless horizon
in my ear,
this is my
(it’s not like me at all to write and post poems, i know, but i’m currently writing poems in a writing class so i thought i could post it here, like, why not?)