So here's your fucking poem

I used to write, 

when the world was measured 

on the depth of silence.

Creating dialogues with the ground, 

writing letters that never reached 

their addressee.

Solace was only measured in inner thoughts. 

And silence, and solitude, and madness 

held illimitable dominion over all. 

Meanwhile, I stood still. 

I made my bed on purple petals and sand dust, 

and slept there for days.

I cried a little, and hid on ink.

I went out,

all set to find the coach on which I would someday die...

but I didn't like any.

I was in love (or I thought I was), 

contemplating tunnels and golden seas.

(Sleepwalker bitch, 

you so convinced times change if you let them pass, 

only to realize it's an everlasting burden

that might never leave.)