history

the past hangs in the air, golden
glorified
but we return to those places
things have changed
and how strange it feels

like an unseen hand
messing with your memories
manipulating reality

the sick feeling of not knowing
if you’re dreaming or waking
my gut turns

I have to leave;
let these places be
never chase the memory.

May ’10

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Welcome…

This blog is the collection of my poetry and prose, in chronological order from most recent to oldest.

Constructive critique is actively encouraged!

I am usually singing words as well as writing them, and make lots of other art. You can find me & my other art at any of the below links. x

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All content on this blog © Rebecca Tilley, 2003-present

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