Not for the Pretty Things

I try to write of tulip skies, but my pen finds the shadows first. I want to speak of beauty, but my tongue can’t carry the weight… -dishonest- I try to sing of lilac air, but every note becomes a bruise, a wound that pretty things can’t use. The air becomes… -suffocating- The easy things… finding laughter in wind chimes, they won’t stay still for me. They slip through the ink, as it’s written upon the lines. The page rejects the grace, of summer’s touch on a freckled face. It calls instead for broken hearts and scars, For bruised-up dreams behind prison bars. I leave the pretty things to someone else— and write what stays when pretty things fade away.