We carry in our bones the vanilla universe, his infinities dancing through out our bodies.
We carry in our veins the knowledge of what every star is thinking, their vivid notions leaking through our tiny fingertips.
We carry through every life, the moon tied around our wrists;
but it’s not untill that life is over, that we understand why.
I’m a dreamer first and a writer second, I dream what I write and I write what I dream;
Terrifying, it is, to know so much when your eyes are open.
I carry my soul under the sleeves of giant sweaters, trying my best to keep her safe. I often wonder how people perceive my soul,
do they smell the sunflowers that grow inside her?
If I had to paint my soul I’d paint her purple, because purple is how the sky tastes after it’s poured all it’s emotions down onto my shoulder blades.
I’d paint her purple because poetry is purple, and time and time again, poetry has saved my life.