Some nights my hands are cold

My feet, they are numb

As numb as my heart

As cold as my feelings

Some nights

When I laid down my bed

I stare  into the blank ceiling

Its white colour



I draw my imaginations into them

Now they’re no longer white, plain ceiling

They’re now my canvas

For when my heart is numb and my feelings are cold

I splash paintings of my true feelings

As I can’t seem to get it all out the way it’s supposed to be


I write whenever I feel like writing, which is not all the time.
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