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chloeblue2ᶜʰˡᵒᵉ/Ιל/ᵉᶰᶠᵖ/ˢˡᵉᵉᵖ ᵈᵉᵖʳᶤᵛᵉᵈ
Autoplay OFF  •  a year ago
I fell asleep writing this poem 3 years ago. The irony of it was enough to keep me from ever finishing.


by chloeblue2

Sleep is where you go when you're locked in by snow.

Or when there is a friendly summer storm. Or even when you're bored.

Sleep is a place of comfort, of warmth, of home.

A place where you can be yourself. Or someone you'd like to be, or pretend to be.

Sleep is a special place where your imagination takes hold.

A place where magic is common and wizards knock on your door. Or even a place where you'd never think you'd go.

Stories We Think You'll Love
chloeblue2Bronze Commaᶜʰˡᵒᵉ/Ιל/ᵉᶰᶠᵖ/ˢˡᵉᵉᵖ ᵈᵉᵖʳᶤᵛᵉᵈ
8 months ago
Sorry about my absence. It's been hard to turn the...

chloeblue2Bronze Commaᶜʰˡᵒᵉ/Ιל/ᵉᶰᶠᵖ/ˢˡᵉᵉᵖ ᵈᵉᵖʳᶤᵛᵉᵈ
a year ago
Catacomb Whirlwinds

chloeblue2Bronze Commaᶜʰˡᵒᵉ/Ιל/ᵉᶰᶠᵖ/ˢˡᵉᵉᵖ ᵈᵉᵖʳᶤᵛᵉᵈ
a year ago
The day he called me perfect.
Somehow, now, I find comfort in the thought.

bernardtwindwilGold CommaGranddad & story teller,
a year agoReply
This was really nice. I loved your descriptors of sleeping on a snowy day and rainy days. You caught the comfort and coziness that lull youe into sleep. Great job!!!