The Brown Eyed Dreamer

'Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.' William Wordsworth

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Burnt-Out Flames

I could build bonfires
From the burnt-out flames
Of words
I never said.
Apologies fall like ashes
From the tip of my tongue;
Too little, always
Too late.


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Exhaustion has shrouded my figure, frail
With the weight of a thousand sighs
And the vague uncertainty that this
Tidal wave of reality may drown me.
Days like this I crave the feeling of
Curling up in the crook of your arm,
Getting lost in the maze of our interlocked fingers;
I’d rather swim in the pool of my own mind,
Dive through the depths of my daydreams
But instead I lie alone in the night
Submerged in the silence surrounding.