She sees things differently.She sees the sky differently than those who merely peak at the clouds for chances of poor weather that might ruin their well-planned day.
She lays in the grass while hours pass, piercing through thick air into worlds beyond the norm of counterfeit smiles, wilted flowers, and fields of dead cities scattered across lands where vibrant gardens once laid.
She sees things differently.
She sees color differently than those who are far too fearful of coloring outside of the well-designed lines that have been sketched in by a most heartless society.
A dreary coloring book that captures our minds, locking away our most intimate thoughts into an impenetrable prison of false whispers and littered lies.
Yes, my dear, she sees color differently.
Shades of deep red and death that penetrate the soul and glaze over the eyes. Delicate pinks and brilliant yellows that warm the face with cheer and joy.
Colors that can cause unimaginable sorrow, whilst still leaving room for complete and utter bliss. What a tremendously marvelous gift of chaos she has been blessed with.
She not only sees color, but she can feel the hair rising on the back of her neck as she breathes it in, inhaling visions of art from unseen artists who have long met their most fortunate demise.
She sees differently.
She sees the rain as a calm that sways with her soul. Dancing under clouds of gray, colors trickling downher cheeks as she gazes into her limitless sky.
She would marry the rain if such silly notions existed, and oh how she would mother the sky. True love is what she sees when she peers into the rain. Yes, it's true, she sees differently than you.
She sees your hatred far differently than most would care to see. While they throw their jagged stonesat the disguise you have chosen to wear, she sees you, crumbled up and thrown away like unread memoirs in a dark corner on a dusty floor.
Peering through your soul, wading through a dense fog of tragedy that leads to an endless nowhere of grief and rage. But do not haste, she knows where to turn because she sees you differently.
She could close her eyes and still picture your reasoning, your anger, and your pain. She knows you better than you know yourself because she too once lived that shadowed vision.
A vision that drowns in all the sadness we have been forced to endure.
She sees your faults as a deep cry for relief from all your deepest weaknesses.
She sees a bleeding heart that once beat with a beautiful soul.
How does she see such things they ask? Because she sees differently.
She sees her madness differently.
She sees her madness for exactly what it is, insanity corrupting her pen, writing out an ending that we all spend a lifetime ignoring.
A madness that fuels her veins and seeps through dark ink spread across her dry, tattered, skin.
A madness that draws imperfect creativity to her very core.
But you see her madness differently, so tell me, old friend, what is it that you see?
- Ashley Cole
