The Inn of Forgotten Fancies

Letting fancies steal my thoughts, a thousand shades of a waning moon speak
   Searching for clarity, all I see is a cold ocean. Fear builds up in steps within my chest, like a foreign hand, softly touching my lungs, yet, making them shiver. Memories of a child sweep me away from these grounds and let me stand as a witness on the bathroom floor when a scared girl dared herself to step under the shower of icy water. Soon I discover that these memories are forged; I've never been a child before. On the threshold of my jump, I'm drowning. I hold my breath and then the ground disappears.
 When the ground appears again, I'm half dosed away.
  I wish my words had a tone. I wish my words were lyrics.
  I tried a thousand times before to write a story, but when my fingers touched the pencil, they started writing on their own. When I read them, I see patternless emotions. I wanted to sew them together with a plot, but they were too powerful for boundaries. They are scenes without a movie. They are a river that rebelled on civilization to become an ocean.
I wish I knew how to tango.