Under the warm water I find my silence.
No thoughts or repercussions,
Just the quiet, yet lively sound of my heart beating, and my lungs breathing.
My writing is nothing.
My art? Impressive only to the masses that approve at quick glance.
My soul? Disapproving and profusely rebellious.
Hidden.
Shown at rare occasions where vulenerability doesn’t play its typical role.
I’m a writer. A painter. A dreamer, lover, and non-returnable 30 days after purchase.
Good god.
Somebody make some lemonade, my brain hurts and my ankle isn’t doing great either.
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