Where is this all coming from, this restlessness bubbling beneath? Spurts would shoot to the surface, translated into anger. Silence stops being peaceful, and colors no longer look and feel beautiful. That’s when red would be viewed as pretense, layers thought as a mask, songs heard as a wail in mourning.

Maybe all we need is a safe place to smear our ink, to cry, to bleed.


For #WhisperingNeds 97

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved


9 thoughts on “rhubarb”

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