Quietly quietly. A passion inward that is unseen. Between shocks of black, blonde, tawny violet, these colors framed by mistake.
Another rotation spins round and round, messages too common to repeat. Instead "bloom and glory forever", and never may they fade.
So many changes, by what name and cause, what river, what ocean, from which they stream, a tragedy by any other name.
Books and books, pages and pages, the scrawls of "your geniuses" and carbon copies. Ideas and hopes to die for.
Star light, star bright, purple towels and black guitars. No shooting ones, but does this by my hand count as a wish? I'll try.
Pages and pages, stacks and stacks, the quiet broken by my laughs and sighs. I'll run to you to find solace and peace, a page to ease my heart.
I'll find myself in "real places", dusty tomes and uneven edges, on a bright screen with foreign letters and in the notes of a screeching guitar.
Because when you grow up, you learn to like who you are.
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