Stream of Consciousness | 1.6

A struggle between solitude and longing unfolds, reflecting deep emotional pain and a desire for escape.

Poverty

And it harm none Mama formed the mission, holding her Bible a glory soaked misfit.

Save the idle banter and the petty, senseless chatter for the next innocent victims of your self created disaster.

I'm on the outside bright color peacock spreading; I own my street, a path forced discreet by tainted company.

I thought I'd feel reprieve; some kind of soul relief to find out she died.

Wind comes, leaving half torn remnants of color, a pinwheel once moved by breath.

Fear is an illusion. I invite these intrusions to include truth, even if it hurts you.

What does my face look like when I cry? Un-pretty, swollen blood red eyes.

I wonder who you are anymore as your voice echoes dismissive screams disguised as suggestions.

What is it like to be granted a wish when your first kiss was laced with bitterness?

They said they found her drowned below the galley. She had tried to scratch her way back to sea.