The shape of the past fits inside a never ending ocean, washing water up on the shore.
The sadness is sharp, like stepping on a needle in the cold winter snow.
The rock bottom of October never will smell like the flowers of summer.
The hiding place of rain shivers underneath the bitterness of a brussel sprout as it crunches in your throat.
The swirl of loneliness sounds like a dog whimpering as you leave him in the space of his kennel.
When you toss sadness to the wind, it returns as a Taylor Swift song giving you a new start.
At the top of tomorrow waits a voice, calling your name in the distance.
When you tiptoe through the Valley of Happiness, you might hear the church bells calling your name on Sunday morning.
If you turn hope on high, you’ll see a million pathways opening in every direction.