May 30, 2017

The doors to my mind are not open or closed. They are a soft, vanilla white. 

Finished with brass handles and rubber edges. 

That if they might close; no sound would escape.
Hollowly, wind flows through my eyes to flutter the pool of papers inside my mind’s brick walls.

    Written on those free pages are headings of the dates; followed by black boxes of ink which run top to bottom. 

    Each day that I have been; my mind has scribbled in an incoherent language of pheromones to make sense of my association with all I was born into. 

Author: sophiapoetryandetcetera

Trying to make it to happiness.

One thought on “May 30, 2017”

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