She loved it when the moon would appear. A orb of light against a blue depth, sprinkled with dead stars.
It reminded her mind to come alive and hushed the monotonous hum of cars and street lights.
She was never afraid of the dark, the dark was afraid of her.
When the small town had turned out the lights and become desolate, her bedroom light was still glowing like a beacon.
She was an insomniac at best
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Poetry"She is that one extra school book you always buy but never use. She is that song you always skip on your favourite bands CD, there's always one. She is the clouds in the sky, so common they are dismissed. She is the dead flies on a logger...
