i find myself so entrapped in the negatives of this world that i fail to see the positives
the beauty in a growing plant,
or a dying beast.
the beauty of a book-
once a tree, standing tall, creating homes for all sorts of things,
then cut down, chopped up-
turned into paper.
and upon it printed beautiful words, telling of worlds far away-
and characters so real they could've stepped out of the pages.
isn't it so beautiful how one thing can become an entire other world?
the winter makes me so happy
the snow hanging in the trees
the cold biting at you
i love it
oh Icarus, you poor thing.
fell in love with the sun, the sky-
paid the price, i suppose.
why do we always pay the price for love?
Orpheus, lonesome poet,
lost his love because he wanted to tell her they'd made it.
In my attic I keep my heart.
I hold it there, safe amidst pillows, blankets and childhood stuffed animals.
When I make things, I break off a piece of my heart,
and sew it into pillows,
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