Nothing Rhymes with Orange
My pen is a vessel
for the thoughts I spill,
like black-clad soldiers
they march across a sea of white.
My eyes are portals
inviting you into my soul,
guarded and stormy
with multitudes teeming within.
My hands are calm
with no indication that
they belong to a body,
so mixed up inside.
My lips are faulty locks
with no key needed to open.
They are tipped glasses,
spilling secrets like fine wine.
My thoughts are clothes
in a dryer, they spin,
around and around they tumble
in my aching head.
My mind is frustrated,
I am so lost
in the see-thru of dreams,
because nothing rhymes with orange.
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