InnocentFreespirit

Nothing is what it seems six feet under. I keep catching flies with an open mouth and wonder why voices speak of me from a distance. Footsteps muffle and break the daffodils perched precariously over my head and the sky feels so blue it hurts my eyes. I can hear the secrets that make the grass go green with spite and birds' twitter sounds like little old ladies playing gin rummy and cursing under their breath over the gossip they're missing. But the worst part is I smell the reek of winter seeping through dirt in dry roots pushing up dead daisies some lazy relative left as an after-thought and know a sickening truth