Clouds are moving rapidly.
Then they let their children fall.
They fall on our faces, on our lips, on our cheeks.
Maybe they don't understand.
But we wipe them off, and move on.
Sometimes its lighter, sometimes harder.
We usually run until we find a place we can feel safe.
Sometimes we just run until we find something.
We move on.
We then cry, go out, fall down, then cry again.
Those clouds know when we'll be happy or sad.
Red like bloodshot eyes...
Hands covered in substances.
I'll make it happen.
I want to stay.
