I once wrote something in the confines of a dream.
Writing it down now it was better then than now it seems.
The grass was so thick, and it went for miles of royal green.
The sky was the most beautiful scarlet I’d ever seen.
Rather it was real or not for once I didn’t hurt.
I can remember reading under blanket forts.
All the lines were witty little quirks.
Written by me and signed by my own smirk.
Maybe I’m just not that clever it would appear.
All my ideas up and vanish, so I disappeared.
Swallowed by my own unrealistic fear.
That none of this including you was real.
