What of your poetry is true?
Is something that lies in between.
Coloring the sky like a sunrise.
Breaking past the horizon.
It speaks to those who touch life as you do.
Who feel more that they may say.
Who dream days away.
Who wish nights where filled with sleep,
instead of poems and other things.
Who blearily, yet blissfully, plug through life.
Waiting for the moment where it feels kind of right.
How much of it is true?
I often wonder.
Do you hide behind the veil of fantasy?
Breathing life into me. As I lap up every word.
Knowing it might not be you, but me it speaks to.