The sky appeared to be crying this morning, but then I realized it was only raining. And that I was crying. Why? Maybe I was sad that the sky couldn’t cry. Or maybe I was blubbering over the fleshy pinky burn I’d just inflicted upon meself in the kitchen while cooking some milky-white, runny eggy weggies.
Searching for new reads?
Poetry about Strange Cars or maybe a fictional novel journal about a Dioramist protagonist who struggles with a passion for writing and a former love? Be sure to check out my published wares on Amazon if you’re interested.
Also, be sure to find me on Instagram @ blankpagesofmine and say hello!
