Frightened.

Sand dribbles from my clenched fist, running though the tiny rivulets and creases in my hand.

Minuscule rocks tumble to the ground.

I wish I could live in music. I think my life would be so much better if what I called home was the cradle of a soft, lulling flat sign in a song, rather than this shitty, fucked up bubble that prevents me from achieving my potential. Chains.

I hope it's everything I hope it to be.

Sighing songs from sad, little, twinkling stars make the trees weep.
Weeping willows already exist.

And it all seems so silly.

I can't take this anymore. I can't fucking take it.

Amid the falling snow, I catch glimpses of something beautiful. I can't quite see. Who the hell can see forever?
These little birds love the white sounds emitted from clouds. Chirp chirp.

Dreams are easy to achieve if hope is all I'm hoping to be.