Vanilla Sunrises and seasalt skies.
Lime pastures and dirty roads.
Everything has a purpose,
Or so I'm told.
But what happens when you end up all alone?
Light refracts off the silver on your wrist,
And you wonder if this is it.
You wait for the right time to talk,
You hope you're not wrong.
Memories from the sky,
Occasionally I hate them and want to stop it.
But how could I ever want to lose who I am?
The people who've taken part in shaping my clay.
An overweight masterpiece,
With cracks in the side.
Eventually weathered down
I look at the people judging me
And realize it doesn't matter
What the critics say.
Who are they to deem worthiness
From something they didn't help create?
I would never give this up.