My spoon clinks against a coffee cup
and the birds outside sing in tune
songs about early mornings that blend
with late nights
long dresses that graze
dirty streets
that i tread
while everyone sleeps.
but those birds see.
the nightbirds watch over me
and in those wee hours
that i catch sleep,
they tell my stories
so morning birds
can sing my tale.
2.
sometimes words can't express my thoughts, regardless of how hard i try to mold them. my stories aren't unique. i'm just another casualty in the war of the open hearts, and the soldiers before me have already woven their tales, created intricate tapestries that far surpass my later, foolish attempts. so instead, i hang their stories up because they're also my stories. i read their tales and learn their mistakes so i can recognize when i'm making them.
